


in waves

by lymricks



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Child Abuse, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-28 17:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13276395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lymricks/pseuds/lymricks
Summary: It’s March and it’s too cold for Billy to be shirtless and wearing shorts, but he hadn’t noticed until Harrington appeared and made him hold still. Harrington can’t seem to stop looking at the bruises. “What’s it to you if I miss a little school, Harrington?” Billy asks. He feels goosebumps rising on his skin.“I don’t know,” Harrington snaps back, looking uncomfortable. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.Plant your feet, Billy wants to scream at him.I’m going to bowl you over.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> There is a stunningly beautiful mood board for this fic now, courtesy of @gothyringwald (on tumblr & ao3!). [It's right here on tumblr!](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/170986075705/in-waves-by-lymricks-its-march-and-its-too) and it's perfect.
> 
> "we  
> return to each  
> other  
> in waves.  
> this is how water  
> loves."
> 
> — nayyirah waheed,

Billy’s morning starts late with a pounding at his bedroom door.

That’s actually not accurate. Billy’s morning had started on time, forty-five minutes ago, with a flail of his hand from under the covers that sent his alarm clock flying off the edge of his makeshift end table and into scattered shards on the floor. 

Five more minutes. That’s all he’d wanted.

_Bang, bang, bang_ then: “Sleeping in on a school day?”

Billy sits up too fast. His head aches. He looks around the room and there’s another bang. “Mother _fucker_ ,” Billy breathes and then his bedroom door bangs open and his dad is standing there. 

Neil Hargrove looks at his watch, then he looks at Billy, then he looks at his watch again. He’s framed in the light from the hallway, looming with rigid shoulders and a face half in shadows. His mouth goes tight at the corners. “Max is going to be late for school now,” his dad says. There’s a lowness to his tone, a stiffness that makes the hairs on the back of Billy’s neck stand up. He thinks about answering, but his brain’s still fogged from sleep. He just opens his mouth like he’s got something to say and stares at his father.

“Dad, I--”

“You what?” his dad asks, still calm, still framed in the light from the hallway. Behind him, Billy can hear the chug of the coffeemaker, the sink running in the bathroom--Max maybe, or Susan. He wonders in a kind of distant way if either of them can hear this. “You have a good reason to be waking up--” his dad stops to look at his watch, mouth still tight at the corners, then drags his eyes slowly back to Billy, “Forty eight minutes late?” 

He doesn’t have an answer. It wouldn’t matter if he did. The blankets are pooled in Billy’s lap. It’s fucking cold in Indiana, even in the house and he’s shirtless in bed, but Billy feels hot all over. 

Billy hears the chug of the coffee maker, the sink shut off in the bathroom, hears a door shut somewhere else in the house, hears his dad’s heavy footsteps crack against the hardwood floor, _one two_ steps to the bed Billy’s standing next to, now. He doesn’t remember standing.

He hears his dad’s heavy sigh. “It’s irresponsible. Max is going to be late for school,” his dad repeats, slow like Billy’s stupid, tired like Billy’s useless. He hears his own breathing, quick and nervous, as he looks somewhere around his dad’s ear. It’s a quick hit, catches Billy right below the eye. He stumbles back a step, ducks his gaze. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, gritting his teeth against pain and something warm and writhing in his chest, the quick flash of heat from afraid to angry. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He adds, “Sir,” before his father can ask him to.

His dad takes a step back. “Don’t spend too much time on your hair,” he says like he’s talking about the weather, but Billy can feel danger curled around each word, can feel the warning. “I don’t want her to be any later than she has to be.” Billy looks up in time to see the way his dad scans his eyes across Billy’s face. “But clean yourself up. You’re a mess.”

Billy hears the bedroom door shut. He hears the sound of his bed creaking when he drops back down on it and puts his head in his hands. He counts to ten slowly. Does it again. He stands back up. He hasn’t quite stopped shaking, but he can’t make Max any later or--

Well.

Max is in the kitchen when Billy eventually slips out of his bedroom. He’d spent no time at all on his hair and he can feel the way his curls feel frizzy at his scalp, like they need to be scraped off his head, like they aren’t a part of him at all. It makes him feel unbalanced at the edges, unsure of his footing. He wants to stomp his feet like a child, but he doesn’t, because his dad could still be home.

Max looks up when he comes in. She doesn’t say anything, but she looks at him for a long, silent moment that makes his skin crawl. He grabs an apple out of a bowl on the table. “Let’s fucking go,” he hisses, because he’s angry, but he doesn’t want his father to hear. “I don’t have all goddamn day.”

“I was ready like, twenty five minutes ago,” Max snaps, rolling her eyes. She flounces at the door in front of him, all bouncing red hair. 

Billy lights a cigarette when he gets in the car, rolls the window down even though it’s March and still kind of freezing. If his hands are shaking he can blame it on that, not on the bruise on his cheek or the hangover making his brain feel slow and fuzzy. He’d felt so smart last night, sneaking in late, getting one over on his dad. That’s twice this week, now. Shit. His ribs are still fucked up from the other night, but the bruising is fading. He’d hit his hip against the corner of the counter then, too, and that bruise still stings, sharp and ugly. Billy hangs his hand out the car window and tips his head back against the headrest. He can hear Max shifting in her seat. He wishes she would just fucking hold still and be quiet for once.

Max isn’t looking right at him, but he can feel the little glances she’s stealing. “What the fuck’s your problem, Maxine?” he asks finally. He takes a turn onto the long, empty road that’ll get them to school. Billy presses his foot down on the gas, building speed.

“Your face is swelling,” Max says and when he cuts a glance at her, her eyes are wide like she didn’t mean to say it out loud. She sort of edges back. “I just mean--” she stops, looks a little frustrated and sets her jaw. She looks like she thinks she overstepped, and she did. Billy knows his fucking face is swelling. He doesn’t need his stupid little step sister to tell him about it because he can _feel it_ His irritation is rising and he looks at her, opens his mouth to snap and--and Max looks back at him and it’s Billy who looks away. 

It isn’t fear on her face, Billy thinks, knowing that eyes are wide and bright, knowing that her jaw is still set. She’s not afraid of him in the same way she used to be. It isn’t fear on her face. It’s resolve. _I’ll hurt you if I have to_ , she says with every steely, brittle inch of her.

_If she has to._ Looking at her, Billy wants to sneer that his father’s never needed a goddamn reason, so she might as well take a swing, come on little Maxine, show us what you’ve got. 

It’s too fucking honest though.

He focuses his gaze back on the road, bangs his palm against the steering wheel to the beat of the music, presses the gas pedal down to the floor and listens to the growl of the engine, the rush of the wind out the window, the squeaks of panic Max can’t quite keep in when he takes a turn too fast.

She isn’t even late to school. That’s the best fucking part, that’s what Billy thinks about as he sits in the parking lot of the middle school and watches her disappear inside with her weird little friends. _She’s always early,_ he wants to scream at his dad, _high school starts first so she’s early every day because I drive her! She was never gonna be late!_

It wouldn’t matter, probably. It doesn’t matter. He drives away from the middle school, down the road, turns into the high school parking lot. He idles there, blocks the road even though there’s a car behind them. They lay on their horn and Billy sticks his hand out the window, flips them the bird, hopes it’s the principal or something.

There’s a moment, the sound of his car’s engine, the sound of the car horn behind him, the sounds of students coming from that building, where he thinks that he might skip school. Then he spots Steve Harrington standing near the door. He drives forward, past the turn that would take him to the parking lot exit, decides that he’s going to have to go to school today, even if he’s late.

Billy parks next to the beamer in a spot that’s close enough to the school someone should have taken it, but didn’t, wouldn’t. It’s where Billy parks now and he’d only had to glower and walk toward two, maybe three cars before people got the message. Billy parks next to Steve Harrington and nobody fucking talks about it because Billy doesn’t want to have the conversation.

Harrington, standing framed in the doorway of the school, stares at Billy for nearly the entire time it takes Billy to walk across the parking lot. Billy can feel his eyes--it isn’t the worst feeling in the world. Just before Billy gets to the door he can hear the late bell for second period ring inside the building. Harrington jumps at the sound, like he wasn’t expecting it. For the first time since Billy pulled in, Harrington looks away from him, over his shoulder into the building. Billy hears him shout _I’m coming!_ , hears him pull open the door, hears the sounds from inside the building spill out into the wet March morning. At the last second, Harrington turns back toward him. Billy’s not quite to the door yet, but the corner of Harrington’s mouth lifts in something like a smile and he lifts his hand in a wave before he ducks inside. Billy hears another bell ring and the door shut behind Harrington.

Probably Harrington wasn’t waiting for him, Billy decides, slowing to a stop just as his feet hit the sidewalk to lead him into the building. He glances over his shoulder at the Camaro, takes a few more determined steps forward and pulls open the door. He hovers at the threshold of the school. There’s still time to bail, but his cheek stings when he opens his mouth to lick his lips, and they’ll call his dad if he blows off school.

He has to go to the office to get a late pass, but at the top of the hallway he thinks he sees Harrington, like maybe he was making sure Billy came inside. Billy doesn’t wave, he takes his pass and walks in late to math class, winks at the teacher and sits in the back. His face hurts. He turns in his homework when the teacher asks for it. He doesn’t pay attention to her, barely registers the sound of her voice and the sound of the chalk on the board as she goes over the answers. He knows every single one on his paper is right.

~

Billy and Steve Harrington hadn’t started parking next to each other by accident. It had been mostly on purpose, after a day in mid January when Billy had found himself standing at Harrington’s locker with a good reason to be there--Max’s bat--and no good reason to convince himself to walk away. Max’s voice had been a loud echo bouncing around his skull, but not as loud as the sound the nails made when they hit the floor between his legs, not as loud as the sound of his dad wrenching open his bedroom door when he hadn’t come home with Max that night. 

A truce, Max had offered on the ride to school that frozen, January morning. “ _Quid pro quo_ , I tell you my plans and you get final call and you apologize to Steve Harrington.” He’d been impressed with her use of the Latin. He’d told himself that probably that was why he was at the locker, looking at Steve Harrington with half the hallway staring, and not because like, he was afraid of little Maxine.

He’d looked somewhere to the left of Harrington’s cheek, couldn’t look Harrington in the face, could still picture the bruises he’d left there. He’d really fucked Harrington up that night. He could still remember how wild he’d felt, how untethered as he leaned over and landed hit after hit after hit. Thinking about it too hard had made Billy’s stomach churn, and there had been no part of him interested in feeling guilty. So he’d stood at that locker and said: “Sorry about your face.” He’d meant to turn and walk away, but he got distracted by the stupid, gaping fish look as Harrington blinked at him. “Do you want me to write you a card?” Billy had sneered, hackles up, embarrassed, and Harrington had held both his hands up, palms out toward Billy and said, “No. That’s--cool. It’s cool, man,” still looking a little confused.

Whatever. Billy’d done what he’d told Max he would do. She’d been better about telling him her plans and it kept his dad off his back for nearly a full week.

At the end of that week, though, on a weird, warm 40º January day, Billy stood gaping like Steve Harrington had in that hallway just inside the front door of the house. His dad stood in front of him, the keys to the Camaro dangling off his finger.

“Dad--”

“Don’t talk back to me,” his father had said, intonation like it was a prayer. “Driving is a privilege, not a right, and you clearly aren’t responsible enough to handle that privilege.”

“I just forgot--”

“How many times do I have to tell you,” his dad had said. “That ungrateful little shits do things like _forget_ to go to the store to get Susan’s tea? Didn’t you act like an ungrateful little shit, Billy? Like you aren’t thankful for the food Susan cooks for you and the way she keeps this house clean?”

Billy had ducked his gaze. He knew a losing fight when he saw one. “I’ll apologize, sir,” he’d said after he’d dragged in a breath. “Can I just have my--”

It had been the wrong thing to say. His dad got in close and Billy got two sharp elbows to his ribs and a backhand that made his ears ring for asking. Billy stepped backwards when his dad did, reached behind the small of his back, his eyes locked on his father, opened the front door and spilled out onto the porch, all stumbling steps like a fucking baby deer. His dad didn’t say anything, so Billy had spun around and walked away, forced himself not to stumble and run, not to look as freaked out as he felt. He would catch hell for it later, probably. He could already hear _don’t you walk away from me_.

When he looked over his shoulder once he got down to the street, his father was still framed in the doorway, still holding Billy’s keys.

Billy had spat blood into the road as he walked. A warm fucking January day, lucky him. 40º in January was just the right temperature for it to rain. A thick, drenching, miserable rain that froze Billy deep down to his bones. He’d kept walking, though, even though it had long since gotten dark, even though his jacket was soaked through, even though he was shivering. Going home was giving up. He’d find somewhere. His ribs ached and his face stung and his lip was definitely split, but these were just details that Billy could catalog and deal with later. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

He was absolutely drenched, walking hunched with an arm curled around his aching ribs, head ducked against the downpour, when he saw headlights behind him and heard the crunch of tires on wet, gravelly road. When he looked up and to his left, Steve Harrington had his window down and was driving slowly next to him, keeping pace.

“Get in,” Harrington said, eyes straight ahead, not looking at Billy.

“You couldn’t afford me,” Billy had sneered, shoving his hands into his pockets and walking a little faster. Harrington sped up, keeping pace, window still down, eyes still locked on the road in front of him and not looking at Billy at all. “What the fuck do you want, Harrington?”

“Get in the car, Billy,” Harrington answered, sounding exasperated. “It’s freezing outside, and raining, so--”

“If it were freezing outside, pretty boy, it would be snowing.”

“Oh for the love of--” Harrington had sped up then, probably to leave and Billy had thought _good_ even as he’d felt a little disappointed, but Harrington just pulled around to cut Billy off. “Get in the fucking car, Billy,” Harrington said again.

It had been almost freezing and Billy had been drenched. He’d gotten in the car.

Harrington didn’t drive right away, though. He’d looked at Billy for a long moment, and Billy had known his curls were plastered to his face and he was drenched, but he didn’t think Harrington needed to _stare_ about it. “Like what you see?” Billy had asked, because he couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Harrington answered, which Billy thought was a weird thing to say. Harrington’s jaw was tight, though, and he was tension all over. He was in a big, warm looking jacket, and underneath it Billy could see the collar of a dark red sweater poking out. The color looked good on Harrington, even just the glimpse looked good with the cream of his skin and the dark of his eyes. “Take your jacket and shirt off,” Harrington said next.

“What the fuck?” Billy had said, startled, off his game, distracted by the dark red of Harrington’s sweater and the cream of his skin. “You know I was kidding about the hooker thing, right? You must be desperate after that Wheeler bitch--”

Harrington had slammed his palm down against the steering wheel with enough force to shut Billy up. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Harrington, exactly. It was more that he was surprised. Harrington’s palm hit that steering wheel and he looked like he was holding something back. Billy actually watched him shut his eyes and count backwards from ten. “One,” Harrington had said, “You don’t talk about Nancy like that again or you can stand out in the rain all night. I don’t care what promises I made,” and huh, that had been interesting--promises? “Two, you’ll never get warm in your wet fucking clothes so take off your jacket and shirt.”

“Not my pants?”

“Hargrove, just fucking do it,” and Billy had missed the way Harrington had been calling him _Billy_ all of the sudden, wished he could have just shut the fuck up long enough to maintain it. He shrugged out of his jacket and pulled off his wet t-shirt, holding them in his hands and not sure what to do with them. “Just throw them in the back,” Harrington had said, sounding a little pained, looking a little bit like he was trying not to stare. Interesting. 

But then Billy knew the moment that Harrington actually gave in and looked at him, knew because it wasn’t the flat planes of his stomach or the muscles in his arms that had made Harrington suck in a sharp breath like that. He could feel Harrington’s dark eyes, like pinpricks, on the fading bruising across his chest, the two new ones blooming on his aching ribs. “It’s nothing,” Billy had said, “I got in a fight.”

“Bullshit,” Harrington had answered, eyes wide as saucers, still staring. He’d dragged his eyes back up to Billy’s face then, and Billy had felt raw and naked under his gaze. He didn’t even know Harrington, and here he was, sitting shirtless in his car-- “Your dad?” Harrington had asked, and Billy had nodded just once, sharp and tight and immediate, hadn’t been able to stop himself, had felt raw and honest--and here he was, sitting shirtless in his car, sharing his biggest fucking secrets.

“Jesus,” Harrington had said, but there wasn’t any pity in his tone, just something kind of breathless and knocked over. Then, “Here--” and he was leaning forward, tugging off his jacket and then that red sweater Billy had been looking at. “Try not to bleed on them. My mom got them for me,” Harrington had added.

The t-shirt Harrington had on underneath was white and Billy couldn’t stop staring at the way Harrington’s collarbone disappeared under the collar. He’d swallowed hard.

“Put them on, Billy,” Harrington had said, sounding tired all of the sudden.

Again, kind of stupidly, Billy had nodded, then he’d pulled on the sweater and the jacket and they hadn’t spoken until Harrington pulled up at his house--mansion, castle. What the fuck ever you were supposed to call something that huge.

It wasn’t until much later, when Billy was walking back home, still wearing Harrington’s jacket and sweater and long after the rain had stopped--Harrington had wanted him to stay the night, but his big empty house gave Billy the creeps and he didn’t need anyone’s fucking pity--that he remembered Harrington had said he was picking him up because he’d promised. Billy had wondered, hands shoved in Harrington’s jacket pockets, to whom he’d made that promise. It probably didn’t matter.

~

That’s when the parking next to each other thing had started. And the little conversations, sometimes walking down the hall together. It had all started after the apology, after the night with the rain, after the red sweater Billy still hasn’t returned and the jacket that he’d given back the next day. They seem to exist, now, in same planetary system. Sometimes Billy feels like he’s in orbit around Harrington, like he’d gotten a new center of gravity along with a ride home in the rain that night.

Max is getting a ride home with one of those stupid kids she hangs out with now and Harrington’s car is gone by the time Billy gets out from his detention. He gets those whenever he’s late and usually he just skips them, but today he hadn’t wanted to go home. Detention is a good excuse for that, so he’d sat in his chair and stared at the board and even had done a little extra credit work to make up for a science test he’d failed three weeks ago because he’d taken it hungover after sleeping in his cold car the night before. 

His teachers have been good about shit like that, about giving him ways to make up missed work. They keep telling him to work hard and keep trying because he’s Smart. They say it like that, with a capital S, and Billy fucking knows that he is. He’s _tired_ of being told he has so much potential, but sometimes he honestly likes school. He likes the challenge of getting shit right, likes the victory of getting it _really_ right. It’s the same rush as making a good shot in a basketball game. Basketball--Billy closes his eyes because he won’t be able to go to practice tomorrow. Fucking detentions. It’s March and the season is over and coach holds practice still-- _my season runs until May so you boys don’t get soft_ he shouts, over and over while they run and run. Billy doesn’t mind it. Practice is another good reason not to go home.

His face still stings from the hit over the missed alarm and Billy still doesn’t want to go home, so he gets in his car and drives away from the school, away from the center of town, out toward the edges of Hawkins to an old, half abandoned park that has a half decent basketball court. He’s got his gym bag in the back of the car and a basketball he’d stolen from school months ago. He wants to blow off some steam and it’s too fucking early, still too light out, to go looking for a fight. And anyway, Billy wants to fucking be alone.

Desolate. That’s the word Billy’s thinking of when he finally pulls up to the court. It’s a word his English teacher would like, probably even the Brontë bitch herself. It isn’t really as isolated as a heath in the middle of England, but that’s fine. It’s close enough to the edges of this stupid town for Billy. He’s been coming here for nearly a month, since the coldest of the weather broke, and he has yet to see anyone else at all. This park is old and overgrown. The hoop barely has a net anymore, and it’s far enough out of his way that the drive takes nearly twenty minutes. It’s perfect for Billy. He grabs the basketball out of the back of his car and walks across grass to the court, drops his gym bag on the sidelines. He holds still for a second, motionless with the heels of his feet lined up with the edges of the court. He looks at the old park spread out in front of him and tries to draw the edges of himself back in, tries to cool the hot, restless energy rushing through his veins, can’t quite seem to get his shit together.

The cacophony of the morning still rings loud in his ears, the chug of the coffee maker, his dad pounding on his bedroom door, the sink running in the bathroom, the _smack_ of fist against cheek. Billy’s stomach churns and his skin crawls. He feels jittery and wound tight, coiled like he’s going to spring, afraid of what happens if he does, eager for the mess he’ll make when it happens. 

Move. He needs to fucking _move_. He shakes his arms out, rolls his neck, and starts to run.

At first, Billy keeps his jacket on as he jogs back and forth across the old cracked court. There’s barely a foot of it that isn’t cracked asphalt and Billy likes the loneliness of this place. He jogs and he breathes and he tries to pull himself back together. He hadn’t really known he’d end up here when he’d walked out of the house this morning, a fresh bruise and a step-sister with an attitude in the car with him, but maybe he had. Billy feels like he always ends up here, in a cracked and broken and desolate place, trying to get his shit together. _Push_ his brain screams at him, and he does, jogging faster. It’s March and the weather’s let up a bit, everything is still soggy and cold at the edges, but it’s been warmer at least. He doesn’t need to go home yet. It’s easier when it’s light out longer, when the weather’s nicer, to spend stretches of time outside and away.

When he’s warmed up enough that the chill in the air doesn’t feel as biting or as real, he strips off his jacket and the t-shirt underneath, ditches his jeans in favor of the shorts in his gym bag. He doesn’t even hesitate--standing shirtless and breathing hard on the edges of the court--to strip off his jeans. He’s standing naked in the middle of a half-abandoned park for as long as it takes him to toss the jeans aside and pull on the shorts, but he just doesn’t care. He kind of likes it, the chance that someone could catch him. What’s the worst anyone is going to do? Call the fucking cops?

Billy likes to play shirtless. Likes the way he feels freer and looser for it. He rolls his shoulders and dribbles the ball with lazy, languid precision, glances down at his chest only once, doesn’t let his gaze linger there, or at the spot on his hip where an old bruise perches, still mottled and angry, peeking over the edge of his shorts. Billy doesn’t need to see them to know that they’re there, can feel the sore tug of bruised skin every time he moves.

Billy leans into that pain, dribbles the ball and runs across the court until he feels sweat gather at his hairline and pool at the base of his spine.

Out here there is nothing and no one. Billy feels like he’s coming back to himself, gathers his edges in and feels something adjacent to wholeness. Out here, Billy can fucking _breathe_. No looming threat, no father framed in a doorway.

When he has detention--he has more now than he should, probably--he isn’t allowed to go to basketball practices the next day. That’s how he found this place, actually. He split his knuckles open punching a wall when the assistant coach stuck an arm out to bar him from the gym, told him _go home, Billy. No practice for you today_. The assistant coach had--suggested, offered--this place as somewhere he could go to blow off a little steam, and Billy is grateful for it in the kind of deep, meaningful way that makes his skin crawl, that makes him uncomfortable, that makes him feel _known_ to another person. Billy loves this desolate fucking place. He likes the big park and the big court near the library for when he wants an audience, for when he’s looking for Tommy’s awed gaze or some stupid girl to coo and giggle when he jumps and dangles from the rim.

Billy comes here, loves it here, when he needs to be alone. He needs to be fucking alone. He feels like he’s going to snap in half.

One more lap of the court and Billy feels loose and ready, feels focused, sharp. He moves across the court toward one of the old, tattered nets. He’s been waiting _all day_ for the feeling of what comes next. Didn’t realize it until now. _Craves_ it.

Billy stands at the top of the key--or where he guesses the key must be, would be, if this place weren’t such a shithole--and drags in a slow, deep breath of cold wet air into his lungs.

The morning had been loud. His music on the drive over had been louder. The stares he’d drawn speeding down the street with his cigarette and his bruised face and his sneer had been loudest of all. Here, though, in this moment, at the top of the key? There is blessed fucking _silence._ Billy dribbles the ball with that same lazy rhythm. The smack of it against wet asphalt sounds familiar in a way that might make Billy feel afraid if he focuses on it for too long.

He squares his shoulders, draws in a breath, lines up his shot and--

_Swish_.

In Hawkins, time doesn’t seem to matter like it did in California, but the heartbeat between the ball leaving Billy’s fingers and it sinking into the net happens in slow motion, and that heartbeat matters to Billy in a way he can’t quite wrap his head around.

Billy marks time over the course of each day because every minute that ticks by means he’s sixty seconds closer to speeding out of this shithole town for the last time, but these heartbeats at the top of the key to the sound of that swish are the _only_ milliseconds of calm he’s had all day. He wishes that he could stay suspended in them for just--just a little bit longer, but then the ball sinks through the net and time resumes its normal speed.

The ball _sails_ through the net, actually, with the kind of accuracy that makes the team hate and need Billy all at once. Hate and need is Billy’s sweet spot for relationships, honestly, so it works for him.

Billy’s already jogging across the court to meet to ball, ready to make another clean shot, to feel time slow and bend and twist around him, to ride that heartbeat of slow motion calm. He grabs the ball, pulls it to his chest, spins into a dribble--

Finds Harrington watching him.

There’s something about Harrington that unnerves him, like the fact that he got here without making a sound, like the fact that Billy has not a fucking clue how long he’s been watching. Or the way that--that night in the car--Harrington’s hand had hit the steering wheel hard enough to make something inside of Billy flinch, the way that he’d looked like he’d been holding back. That’s a little unnerving, especially from someone spending so much time with little fucking kids.

“See something you like?” Billy asks, rolling his shoulders, dribbling lazily, like every nerve ending isn’t alight with Harrington’s presence, like he isn’t tuned into him like some sort of radar.

Harrington doesn’t laugh at the joke. He runs his eyes over Billy and Billy sees the moment Harrington stops being casual about it, sees the flinch in his gaze, the way his eyes flick back and linger over the bruises spread across Billy’s ribs, the purple and black at his hip.

Billy tightens his jaw. “What the fuck do you want?” he asks. Billy comes here to be alone. Harrington’s holding himself together with a tension that Billy thinks might mean he’s keeping himself from losing it completely. These are two separate truths, but Billy suspects that they might overlap.

Harrington finally drags his gaze back up to Billy’s face. He’ll find a bruise there too, Billy knows. Billy licks across his lower lip, meets Harrington’s eyes with a challenge. “You were late to school,” Harrington says, and it’s not quite a question or a statement.

_How did you find me here_ , Billy wants to scream. Doesn’t. 

He’s still sort of processing Harrington’s--whatever it was. It doesn’t count as an answer to what the _fuck_ Harrington is doing here now and Billy--Billy doesn’t really know what to do with something he hadn’t been expecting. 

He misses a dribble because of it. The _smack_ of basketball against wet asphalt skips a beat. It’s March and it’s too cold for Billy to be shirtless and wearing shorts, but he hadn’t noticed until Harrington appeared and made him hold still. Harrington can’t seem to stop looking at the bruises. “What’s it to you if I miss a little school, Harrington?” Billy asks. He feels goosebumps rising on his skin.

“I don’t know,” Harrington snaps back, looking uncomfortable. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. _Plant your feet_ Billy wants to scream at him. _I’m going to bowl you over_.

Billy doesn’t say that, thought. He doesn’t say anything. He just dribbles the ball. _Smack, smack, smack_.

Billy’s known, honestly, a lot of fucking guys like Steve Harrington. He’s fucked more than a few of them. Harrington is a type that should be simple--all fancy sweaters, big house, calm predictable movements, a stereotype. Sometimes he even is. But then sometimes, Billy sees the tension in Harrington, the something a little dark that’s just below the surface. There’s a nervous, crackling energy about him. Harrington, even when his gaze is locked on Billy, always seems to be hyper aware of his surroundings. There’s something about Steve Harrington that makes Billy want to bare his teeth like he’s circling prey. There’s something about Steve Harrington that makes Billy want to bare his teeth like he’s the one being hunted. That darkness rumbling underneath Harrington’s skin is like an itch that Billy wants to scratch. Now that he’s noticed it, he can’t figure out how he’d ever missed it.

“You were late to school,” Harrington repeats in the face of Billy’s silence. Then he shrugs off his backpack into the damp grass of the park right next to Billy’s gym bag. He pulls his stupid seafoam green or what the fuck ever sweater off over his head, tosses it into that same damp grass. It lands right next to Billy’s t-shirt. Billy wonders if Harrington’s mother will be angry, wonders what she’s like, the woman who gave life to this person standing in Billy’s space, on Billy’s court, looking like he belongs there.

Harrington’s got a white t-shirt on again. It’s almost too bright in the face of all the grey and brown out here.

“Those are shitty shoes for basketball,” Harrington says, motioning toward Billy’s feet. He steps onto the court like he owns it. Maybe he does. Harrington’s fucking loaded, if his house is anything to go by. His family probably owns half this town. Harrington steps onto the court like he owns it, and Billy feels more hunted than hunter, pinned under the calm weight of Harrington’s dark eyes.

Billy feels off balance. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s going on, and he really fucking does not get this.

“Not all of us can afford the best shoes money can buy,” Billy answers, but it’s only half the sneer he’d wanted it to be. He drags his tongue along his lower lip again, tries to project control. Still, Harrington comes closer and Billy has to plant his feet to stop himself from taking half a step back. Harrington holds his hands up for the ball. 

Billy stares, thinking of sitting inside Harrington’s car that night, the cadence in his voice when he’d called him _Billy_ and not Hargrove. How it had been soft. How it had taken the edge off, brought out an honesty in Billy that he doesn’t like. How Harrington had said _your dad?_ like he knew the answer and how Billy had just--just fucking nodded, just put that out there in the fucking world. 

Billy’s never told anyone--not a single fucking soul--that his dad beats him, but he’d told Steve Harrington in the car that night. People usually draw their own conclusions, but Harrington had seen the bruises--had _asked_ and Billy--Billy had just _answered him_. Billy doesn’t know what gives Harrington that darkness, that look about him like he’s unravelling, but Harrington knows where Billy gets his own look from.

Something like fear coils at the base of his spine. He feels known and raw and he _hates it_. Billy doesn’t like being afraid, so he lets it boil into anger instead. Billy chucks the ball at Harrington, too hard, and Harrington exhales sharply when it nails him in the chest. “Fuck you,” Harrington says in response. His gaze is almost too heavy when he looks at Billy, when he dribbles the ball.

_Smack, smack, smack_.

Billy grins and bends his knees, leans forward. “You’re on, Harrington,” he says, all challenge.  
Billy likes a physical game. He likes it more than Harrington does. Harrington’s strong, but Billy’s meaner. When they play at practice, Billy’s faced with the sharp eyes of the coach and the rest of the team ready to call his fouls. Out here, one on one, there’s no careful eyes to call fouls if Billy gets too close, too nasty. Billy’s pretty sure that Harrington won’t call them either.

Billy gets the ball and from the first drive he makes it clear that this isn’t going to be like practice. He bumps up against Harrington when Harrington gets the ball back, crowding him back and back and back. Harrington has enough height on him that he could make it tough for Billy and Billy is determined not to let him. He moves quick, keeps pace, doesn’t let Harrington get a foot around him. Bumps him back and back and back _and back_. 

Harrington keeps dribbling, keeps backing up, keeps possession of the ball, keeps looking like he’s thinking about ducking around Billy, but he never does. They’re so far from the hoop now. 

Fuck, Billy realizes all at once. Harrington’s _letting him do this_.

Billy doesn’t need someone to fucking let him win a game. Harrington’s not even putting up a fight.

Billy growls, shoves at Harrington, smacks the ball out of his hand on the next dribble. It bounces away, rolls to a stop when it hits Harrington’s backpack. Harrington’s cheeks are flushed, he’s staring at Billy with wide eyes. He’s like a fucking baby deer.

Billy bares his teeth in a grin, licks his lips, curls his fingers into a fist. “What the fuck was that?” he asks, getting right up into Harrington’s space. Harrington doesn’t answer. Billy crowds closer, fists a hand in Harrington’s t-shirt. “What the fuck was that?” he asks again.

Harrington finally _does something_ then. He puts two fingers to Billy’s chest, “Step back,” he says, his voice low and his eyes dark.

Billy hisses as soon as Harrington’s fingers touch his skin, pressing right into a bruise. He drops Harrington’s shirt, already lifting his hand to cover it, automatic. He’s embarrassed again. Harrington’s made him vulnerable, made him known--again. He should hit Harrington for it. If it were anyone else, Billy thinks, feeling off balance and wild, he’d fucking hit them.

Harrington’s eyes are wide, his mouth is parted. “Shit,” he says. “I didn’t--”

“Fuck off and fuck you,” Billy answers, taking a step back. “This isn’t like a practice or a rescue, princess. I’m not out here looking for some goddamn company.” Harrington doesn’t move. “I said _fuck off_ ,” Billy snarls, half a yell.

Harrington shrugs.

Billy spins on his heel, jogs to the ball, to the top of the key. He’s chasing the stillness that comes with a perfect shot, but he knows even before he’s sent the ball arching through the air that he’s going to miss. He turns around once the ball ricochets off the rim, rolling back into the grass, ready to ask Harrington to pass it to him, but Harrington’s gone.

Billy didn’t even hear him leave.

“Fuck!” Billy screams out into the empty, desolate space of this stupid park and this stupid court in this stupid town. The sun had started to set while they were playing and now it’s cold.

A crow caws somewhere in the trees above his head. Billy shivers and, his fragile calm shattered, gets his stuff and drives home.

~

“My mom and Neil are out,” Max says when Billy walks through the door. He stops, frozen in the threshold, staring at her. 

“What?” he asks, hates the waver in his voice that sounds a little bit like fear.

Max is sitting on the couch watching tv. She’s got a bowl of cereal balanced on her stomach, a walkie talkie perched next to her on the couch. Her feet are up on the coffee table. It would never in a million years cross Billy’s mind to sit like that on his father’s couch, even if he were out--like he apparently is now--with Max home alone. _Fuck_.

“Neil said you could just watch me when you get back as long as you get back when it’s light out.” Max doesn’t look away from the television as she speaks. Billy steps the rest of the way into the house and shuts the door behind him. Outside the window, the sun has long since set. He took the long way home. _Fuck_. “So it’s good that you got home two hours ago,” Max adds, “Like I told him when he called to check.” She’s still staring at the tv, spoons cereal into her mouth, crunches loudly on it.

Gratitude is not a feeling Billy is particularly used to, but it washes over him in a wave.

Max--knows, then. This morning, Billy had wondered if Max could hear his dad, hear Billy, and now--now he knows that she could. She knows. Fuck. Billy’s feeling _known_ a lot, lately, but with Max it doesn’t--it doesn’t make him feel off balance in the same way. Maybe it’s because they live in the same house, or maybe it’s because she doesn’t make him talk about it, doesn’t ask him, just sits there staring at something stupid on the tv and making him feel grateful. Billy has felt grateful for more shit than he thinks he has any right to, lately. The weirdest fucking part is that he doesn’t feel like he owes her, really. This isn’t the same as that quid pro quo from a few months ago.

Standing in the doorway, looking at his little step-sister, he remembers Harrington in the car that night saying he wasn’t doing this for Billy, that he’d promised someone. It makes more sense now. Harrington really loves those fucking kids and Max is one of them now. Billy wants to tell her not to tell anyone else, that she can’t tell _anyone_ else, but he thinks that she probably wouldn’t.

Billy drops his gym bag and his basketball in a chair, walks by her and ruffles the top of her head. She smacks at his hand, and he takes the opportunity to snatch the bowl of cereal away. It’s a near miss that none of the milk spills. “Cereal isn’t dinner, Maxine,” Billy says, walking into the kitchen to dump it into the sink. “I’ll make something.” He means _thank you_.

Max rolls to her side on the couch, peering around so that she can see into the kitchen. “Ok,” she says. “I want that pizza bread.” She means _you’re welcome_.

“Broccoli?” he asks her. She stands and walks into the kitchen, wrinkling her nose.

“No,” she says. “Peppers.”

Billy watches her walk to the fridge and grab out three peppers--one in each color. She’s hunting for the good knife while he pre-heats the oven and goes for the crusty bread that Susan likes. He’ll need tomato sauce and he hopes they have cheese. Something melty. Max likes the pizza bread best when the cheese has really melted in. He doesn’t wonder how he knows that. Their relationship--if you can call it that--seems to largely center around food and him giving her rides places, but it works for both of them. The silence in the kitchen feels comfortable, and when Billy reaches around Max to grab for the oil on the counter, she doesn’t flinch, just moves out of his way so he can reach it.

They sit at the table in the kitchen once the food is ready. Billy’s flipping through a book and Max is glaring at her English homework, munching on a piece of what she now calls his _famous pizza bread_. In between her grumbles, Billy is insisting she’s really going to like the book if she gives it a chance. They both look up when they hear the front door open. Billy sucks in a breath, pretends he doesn’t see Max’s eyes dart to him, and shuts his book.

“Guys?” Susan calls brightly into the house. “We’re home!”

Billy’s on his feet before they walk into the kitchen, feels the cold creep of fear up his spine. “Hi Susan,” he says. “Hi, dad.”

“Max,” Neil greets her first. She waves, mouth full. Neil turns his eyes to Billy and Billy’s insides feel like they’re freezing up. He knows, Billy thinks in a way that would be frantic if he didn’t feel cold all over. He hates being afraid, but his dad _knows._ He knows that Max lied. “Billy,” his dad begins, “You were very late to school today. Later than I expected after our conversation this morning.” The words are almost a question, but his eyes on Billy are steady and hard. 

“I know dad. I--” Billy pauses, hunting for a reason that would make sense. An excuse. He falters, can’t think of anything.

“Billy made me dinner,” Max interrupts. “Look, mom. It’s that pizza bread I tell you about.”

“How nice,” Susan says, her eyes moving slowly from Neil to Billy and back again.

“That doesn’t sound healthy,” Neil says, voice hard and gruff. Billy wants to shout that it’s better than fucking cereal, that it’s not like Neil was around to feed her, but Max speaks before he can.

“He did it with peppers and broccoli,” she says, half a lie. Her voice is so calm as she sits there at the table that Billy’s jealous of her, how unafraid she is. Billy’s still standing at her shoulder, can’t tear his eyes away from his dad long enough to look at her, can just hear the calm confidence in her tone, in the even keel of her words, just the right amount of enthusiasm to sell it when she adds, “I couldn’t even tell they were vegetables. It was great!”

Billy is frozen, everything in him feels like it’s iced over, like he’s waiting to crack. He’s breathing slowly and deliberately, doesn’t want to shatter whatever calm Max has guided into the room. There’s a long moment where Billy feels Susan’s eyes on his face, can see the determined tilt of Max’s chin out of the corner of his eye, can’t drag his gaze away from his father long enough to acknowledge either of them. He breathes, in and out. In and out.

“Make sure you help her with her homework,” his father says, brushing past Billy. Susan follows him into the bedroom.

“Max,” Billy says, feels a little helpless, half sagging, doesn’t know what to do with his face or his voice or his body. He taps his fingers on his thighs. He’s still staring at the spot where his father was, and he feels, more than sees, Max stand up and start collecting her homework.

“I need you to pick me up from school tomorrow,” she says. “I want to go to the arcade.”

Billy swallows, nods, “Ok,” he says. “You got it.”

“Ok,” Max repeats, a little slow, like she’s talking to a jumpy animal. “I’m going to go--to bed?”

“Read the rest of that chapter first, Maxine,” Billy says, going for teasing, but it falls a little flat. He nods once at her before he moves to grab their now empty plates, to clean up the mess from dinner. He rinses them and runs the sponge over them. Billy can feel her watching him, can see the reflection of her gaze in the dark kitchen window over the sink. He doesn’t look back at her, just stands there washing dishes until she finally goes into the living room, collects her walkie, and goes back toward her room. Just before the door shuts behind her, Billy can hear her say, “I can come tomorrow, over,” into it. There’s a crackle, and someone must answer, but the door shuts before he can figure out their response.

~

The next day is a Wednesday. Billy wakes up before his alarm, scrubs sleep out of his eyes, and is sure to be in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee when his dad stumbles out. He’s pretty sure he’s on thin ice, even if Max did cover for him yesterday, and Billy isn’t eager for anything else like yesterday morning. Sometimes he’ll argue, knock things over, yell back, but today he mostly feels drained. The bruise on his hip kept him up most of the night, a throbbing, bone deep pain every time he rolled over. Sometimes Billy can bring fire to his father’s feet, but it never lasts long, and it’s never worth the energy he burns while he’s lit up.

“Morning, dad,” Billy says, trying to mimic Max’s even tone from the night before. “I made coffee.”

His father grunts, pours himself a mug, doesn’t linger in the kitchen. Billy sits alone until Max appears. He’s drumming his fingers on the table, bouncing his knee. “About fucking time,” he snaps when she walks in.

“Sorry,” she says, her eyes wide. She takes a half step back from him when he stands up, his chair scraping loudly over the floor. “I couldn’t find my shoes.”

“Billy,” his dad’s voice echoes through the house. Billy wonders if it sounds as loud to everyone else as it does to him. “You better not have scratched my floor.”

Billy looks down. The floor looks fine, but he’s not interested in hanging around to see if his dad agrees. “Are you ready?” he asks. Max nods and Billy dumps the rest of his coffee out, cleans the mug in a hurry, and ushers her out the front door.

Sitting in his car, driving away from that house, is the most relieved Billy’s felt since he walked into it. When he hits the wide open road, a long stretch between them and the main street to the middle school, he presses down on the gas, lets the car sink into the road, takes a curve with the tires squealing.

Max has a white knuckled grip on the door. He can hear her breathing coming fast and shallow, but she doesn’t say anything. He turns the music up, bangs his head against the headrest, takes another curve and Max shrieks when another car is _right there_. Billy jerks the wheel, swerves around them, cackles. “What the fuck, Billy!” Max shouts, still clutching the door. “Stop it!”

He’s still laughing when he turns his head to look at her, but he stops when he really sees her. Max is clutching at the door, pressed practically the whole way against it. The red of her hair stands out in stark contrast to the pallor of her face. Billy pulls his foot off the gas, presses his lips together and looks straight ahead of him for the rest of the ride, just above the speed limit. Max doesn’t say anything to him at all until he’s pulling up in front of the middle school.

“You’re picking me up, right?” she asks.

He almost says no. But then he thinks of Max with that bat and he also thinks of Max last night, nose wrinkled at her reading homework. “Don’t be late,” he says. “Or you’re fucking walking.”

“I won’t be late,” she promises. He watches her run across the parking lot to where her weird little friends are waiting. Billy drums his hands on the steering wheel, makes sure they’re all looking at him before he turns the music up and peels out of the parking lot.

When he gets to the high school, his spot next to Harrington’s car is taken, and Harrington isn’t waiting outside.

Whatever. If Billy slams the car door a little extra hard, it isn’t like there’s anyone around to see. Certainly not Steve fucking Harrington.

It isn’t until he’s sinking down into his seat in math class that Billy lets himself acknowledge that the feeling sitting heavy in his stomach is disappointment.

Fuck.


	2. II

The last day in January had been the first time Billy parked next to Harrington in the morning. He’d pulled into the parking lot, early, always early, always eager to get out of that fucking house, and Harrington had already been there. He’d been standing outside his car despite the cold, his hands tucked under his arms, his face set, his leg bouncing.

Billy had rolled his eyes, figured Harrington must be saving it for Wheeler and Byers, even though it’s a good fucking spot, and had been about to drive by when Harrington had just--waved him into it.

“You got a cigarette?” was the first thing Harrington said when Billy got out of the car.

He’d looked jittery that day. It hadn’t been the first time that Billy had seen that energy Harrington sometimes crackles with, but it’d been the first time since the night at the Byers’s house that he’d really seen it up close. In Billy’s mind, Harrington--even in the car that night a few weeks before--was something a little soft at the edges, something Billy could bat around if he wanted to. He hadn’t wanted to yet, but he’d like having the option.

Standing there in front of him, though, Harrington had looked jagged. Something deep in Billy’s bones responded to that. “Sure,” he’d said, offered Harrington a cigarette.

He’d lit it for him, too, once he’d realized Harrington’s fingers were shaking too much to do it himself.

Billy hadn’t asked if Harrington was all right. Couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to--and he didn’t--but Harrington knew some shit about Billy that no one else did and so Billy had leaned up against the Camaro in the parking spot next to Harrington’s. He’d stayed. He’d stayed there until Harrington’s hands had stopped shaking.

That energy hovering in a haze around Harrington though, it didn’t dissipate with the shaking fingers. They’d walked into the building together, just before first bell, in a crush of students. Their shoulders had bumped, and Billy could feel the tension in him. Nothing about Harrington had felt soft.

Billy hadn’t known why then and still doesn’t know why now, but he’d spent most of that day trailing Harrington. Part of it was a curiosity; he’d wanted to see what that energy could do. Part of it was something that even now, in March, Billy doesn’t really have a name for. 

Protectiveness, maybe. 

Billy had smelled blood in the water that day and Harrington had, too. Had gone sniffing around Tommy, around Jason, looking for a fight. Billy had known that look, had worn it himself, had felt both hunter and hunted. He’d wondered, standing a half step behind Harrington listening to him say, “Shut up Tommy,” if Harrington would turn that energy on him. Billy’d been on edge about it all day, thinking of the cigarette in the parking lot that morning, thinking of the bruises he’d put on Harrington’s face, thinking that maybe he didn’t want to be the one Harrington flipped on.

Billy had been so sure, watching Harrington stalk through the halls, watching his hands start shaking again, that Harrington would flip on someone.

The difference between them, Billy guesses, sitting slumped in his seat in math class, is that Harrington hadn’t lost control. Billy would’ve. Billy still does. Harrington had taken all that crackling energy and just--done something with it, shoved it deep down inside himself, locked it away.

The next day, February had bloomed as cold and dark as a Hawkins winter could offer, and there was Harrington, looking kind of soft around the edges again.

Only Billy knew better. Harrington hadn’t been able to get rid of him since.

That’s why, by fourth period, when Billy hasn’t seen Harrington even in passing, he’s starting to feel something like worry threading through his bones. He doesn’t like the feeling, covers it with anger. Who the fuck does Harrington think he is, just walking away like that, what a fucking asshole. Billy drums his fingers on the desk of every single one of his first four classes, gets yelled at for it in all of them. The real problem, Billy knows but is steadfastly not admitting, is that Billy’s gotten _used_ to Harrington anchoring his school day. Billy’s fucking stupid for letting himself do something sentimental as that, but it’s just--

Harrington isn’t fucking _anywhere_. Billy’s been looking.

He feels a little bit like he did when he first walked into Hawkins High, trying to ask about Steve Harrington without _really_ asking about him, trying to get people to give him just a little bit more information. He’s having a lot less fucking luck this go round, though. He slumps further down in another seat in another classroom, drums his fingers on the desk, ignores the teacher when he asks him a question.

The bell rings, and Billy’s the first one standing, slams out of his class, ignores the teacher’s half tired insistence that he stop trying to break the glass door. He’d slam it _again_ if he could. He thinks about doing it for a second, about wheeling around, winking at the teacher, slamming the door shut just as hard as he’d slammed it open. It’d get a laugh, he’d get a detention, but he doesn’t have time to waste to backtrack. Instead he stalks down the hallway, slams his locker open, starts looking for his science textbook.

At some point, Tommy had walked up to him and now Tommy’s talking at him. Tommy’s always talking at him, too eager to please, mostly background noise. Billy doesn’t even bother to nod every few words. He’s too busy scanning the hallway, casting his eyes over every breathing person he can find. Harrington can’t have fucking disappeared, but that’s what it feels like. 

He’s not going to admit that he’s worried. He’s--interested. Intrigued, maybe.

Another class comes, goes. Back by their lockers, Tommy’s still fucking _talking_.

Billy’s felt a low, buzzing thrum of _need_ to know where the fuck Harrington is since he walked in the building that morning. His car’s in the fucking parking lot. This high school isn’t that big. If Harrington’s avoiding him, that’s on Billy, who was an asshole yesterday. It’s still bullshit, though. 

Billy’s gotten used to having Harrington around and he doesn’t much like change. He clenches his jaw as Tommy drones on and fucking on.

Plus, there’s a chance Harrington’s walking around somewhere with that energy crackling all over him, jittery and in need of a smoke. Billy’d like to be the one who gives it to him.

He’s in the middle of not listening to Tommy at all when he spots Nancy Wheeler at her locker.

He stands straight up in the middle of Tommy’s sentence, shoves past him. “Whatever,” Billy says to Tommy’s indignation. 

Billy’s walking across the hallway, draping himself strategically against the locker right next to Nancy’s and pasting the smile on his face that worked so well with her mother. “Hey, Nancy,” he says, lowers his voice, tilts his head. “I was wondering if you’d seen Harrington today.” He says it like a statement, not a question. He leans forward a little bit into her space, still smiling, warm, easy.

Nancy stands up straight, her spine like iron, wraps her arms around the books and folders she’s holding and pulls them into her chest. She sets her chin when she looks at him. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Billy,” she answers. Her voice is steady as hell. She doesn’t look even a little worried, interested, _or_ intrigued. She looks unimpressed, actually. Billy drags his tongue across his lower lip. Nancy somehow manages to be looking down her nose at him even though she’s smaller.

“Don’t be like that, Nance,” Billy says. He pictures the way her mom had blushed and leans a little closer. “Harrington and I--we have a project together and I just want to ask him abo--”

“No,” she cuts him off and when he steps a little closer, she doesn’t give an inch, doesn’t step back, just looks at him, looks down her nose, looks calm. “You don’t have a project together. It’s none of your business where he is.” 

Billy’s jealous of her, so hot and sudden he forgets for a second to breathe. Nancy Wheeler knows where Harrington is, and that’s part of it, but more than that he envies the way she stands with her spine straight even though he’s bigger, even though he’s crazy, even though she must know what he did to Harrington’s face, once. Nancy doesn’t look afraid of him, doesn’t look like she’s ever been afraid of anything in her life. Billy’s so jealous of her it makes his palms itch.

People used to be afraid of him, Billy thinks as he watches Nancy Wheeler spin on her heel and walk the other way. It made him feel better about how often he’s still afraid.

“Could’ve told you that you’d strike out there, man,” Tommy chirps from just behind Billy’s shoulder. He drops his hand on Billy’s arm, “Let’s go.”

Billy flinches at the hand, turns around and shoves Tommy back. “Keep your grimmy fucking paws to yourself,” he snaps. He glances down the hallway at Nancy, who doesn’t look back. “Whatever. Bitch. Let’s just fucking go.” Harrington would lose his mind if he heard Billy calling her a bitch. Good. 

Billy walks down the hallway in the opposite direction of Nancy, knocks the books out of a freshman’s arms just for sport, laughs when Tommy trips over them. The freshman looks at him with wide eyes, startled, afraid. Billy doesn’t feel any fucking better, but he laughs anyway to make it seem like he does.

Whatever. Fuck Harrington.

~

Billy goes to practice after school even though he isn’t really supposed to after the detention. He figures the worst thing that’s going to happen is they’ll tell him to leave. Max’s stupid AV club runs late on Wednesdays anyway, something about trying to contact different time zones--Billy stopped listening five minutes into her explanation--and he doesn’t want to sit outside a middle school in his car for an hour like a fucking creep.

Coach doesn’t say anything when Billy walks out of the locker room in shorts and a t-shirt, so Billy figures he’s in the clear. They’ll run first to warm up, but when he drags his eyes across the gym, he doesn’t see Harrington. Usually they run together. Harrington’s really the only one who can keep up with him. Billy drags his tongue across his lips. Shoves someone out of his way and starts running.

Yesterday on that old, abandoned, piece of shit court, Billy had said _fuck you and fuck off_. He’d sort of been banking on the fact that Harrington would know he didn’t really mean it. Now he’s not so sure. 

Billy feels hot all over. Isn’t sure if it’s shame or fear or anger and only likes to feel one of those three things anyway, so that’s what he leans into. Coach blows the whistle, calls the drill. Billy leans into the anger hard, lets heat race up his spine. He feels balanced, then. It’s familiar, the heat, the adrenaline, the snarl. He feels balanced and in control. It’s a good fucking way to feel.

“What the _fuck_ , man?” Jeremy shouts at him from the floor about an hour into practice. It’s the third time Billy’s checked him on a drive hard enough to send him crashing to the ground. Billy’s playing dirty, mean, like would have played on the court yesterday if Harrington hadn’t thrown the game.

Whatever. If Harrington can handle it, so can Jeremy. “Don’t be such a little bitch,” Billy smiles through his teeth, doesn’t offer him a hand up. “Maybe if you were a little faster you wouldn’t end up on the ground so much.”

“You’re such an _asshole_ ,” Jeremy shouts, sudden and sharp, scrambling to his feet. He’s in Billy’s face then, shoving him back. “You want to act big, new kid?” 

That’s cute. Billy’s been here for months. He’s not new anymore. Jeremy’s acting big and Billy leans into the anger, feels relief. He can smell the fight coming, bares his teeth in another half smile. Jeremy’s still running his fucking mouth. “You think because you fucked Steve’s face up you can just come in here and push the rest of us around? Not fucking me, man. Not me,” and then he shoves Billy again, harder, and Billy’d seen it coming, doesn’t flinch.

“You wanna go?” Billy asks, real soft. “Touch me again.”

Billy can pretend he’s giving Jeremy an out all he wants, but it’s really a threat. It’s really _bait_. The blood is running hot in Billy’s veins and he’s _buzzing_ for it. He’s needed something all day and a fight will fucking do. Jeremy’s like a fish circling Billy’s hook, he’s gonna take that bait. Billy’s _ready_ for it.

Jeremy steps back into Billy’s space, lifts his hand and pats him-- _one two_ , little open palmed smacks on his cheek.

One second, Jeremy’s hand is patting his cheek. Then they’re both on the floor. A whistle blows, loud, insistent, and Billy ignores it. Someone’s yelling. The whistle blows again and someone’s pulling him off of Jeremy. Billy’s knuckles are red. Jeremy’s cheek is, too. They’re both bleeding. 

Billy stands there, chest heaving, smile stretched big and a little bloody, teeth still bared.

His eyebrow stings. When he reaches up to touch it his fingers come away red. Jeremy’s standing now, also being held back, his brows drawn together. “Fuck you, Hargrove,” he says.

Billy jerks in the arms holding him. “Say it again,” Billy taunts. “Big man, right?”

“What do you boys think you’re _doing_?” The whistle blows again. Billy turns his head and coach’s face is as red as Jeremy’s, just for a different reason. “Hargrove, I wasn’t even supposed to let you play today and this is how you thank me for it? Useless, the pair of you. Useless to me and useless to this team when you act like a bunch of animals.”

_Useless_. The word bounces around in Billy’s skull and the sting of it is familiar. Someone’s still holding Billy by both arms. Billy can’t see who it is. He tries to tug himself out of their grip, but they don’t let go.

Billy feels his breathing pick up. Hears the squeak of shoes on the court. The thrum of the fans and the hum of the lights overhead. Hears his own breathing. Hears Jeremy’s. Hears the angry, loud rumble of the coach’s voice. Somewhere a door slams, laughter. Another practice is ending. The coach yelling, yelling, yelling. _Useless_. Billy tugs again. Whoever is holding his arms still doesn’t let go. Hot pinpricks of panic bloom across Billy’s chest. The coach is in the middle of a sentence when Billy finally snarls, shouts, half pleads but coats it in rage, “Get the _fuck_ off me!”

He rips himself out of whoever’s grip, stumbles three steps across the court, leaning over, hands on his knees, panting.

It’s a heartbeat of total silence before he stands up straight, pushing hair out of his face. Everyone’s eyes are on him. He whips around to see who it was, ignoring the coach who’s yelling again. Billy’s shaking. He can feel himself shaking.

It was just Ian who’d been holding him back, though, not--not anyone else. “Sorry man,” Ian says, both palms up like Billy’s a wild animal. “Coach said to stop you before you did any real damage.”

Like Billy did to Harrington. Like they all know he fucking did to Harrington. 

Fuck.

Everyone is looking at him. _Come at me,_ he wants to shout. _You want a fucking piece? Come and get it!_ He doesn’t say it, though. Doesn’t say anything at all. Just stands there, breathing too hard, shaky and sweaty and on display. He looks around for a way out, can’t stand the sounds in the gym, the sound of Jeremy breathing, Ian’s voice. He needs to get the fuck out.

Billy spins around, looks at the coach, feels desperate. “I need to go take care of my eye,” he lies, can feel blood dripping down his face, doesn’t really care about it. He can’t handle what’s happening in his chest, the feelings making him want to climb out of his skin. He’s destroyed practice and he doesn’t feel any less--angry, scared, shameful--than he did when it started. 

Billy exhales hard, thinks about Max, thinks a little bit about his father, says, “Sorry about practice, si--coach. That was--I--” he stops. _Useless_. He wants to say more, wants to say he messed up and he knows it, but can’t seem to put the words together. Everyone is still staring at him. Billy’s never minded the attention before.

The coach sighs. Does something with his face. “Jeremy,” he says, “Are you all right?”

“Fine. No thanks to that asshole,” Jeremy snaps.

“Now from what I saw,” the coach answers, pointing a finger at Jeremy, still talking slow, but an edge to his voice, “You weren’t so innocent yourself.” Coach sighs again, pinches the bridge of his nose, says, “Hargrove, you’re getting blood all over my court. Go get yourself cleaned up and head home. You can do your suicides tomorrow. I’m done with this bullshit tonight. Jeremy--get running.”

Billy tries not to feel too much relief, slams his way out of the gym, goes to the locker room and washes out the cut above his eye. It’s swelling a little, still bleeding, but only sluggishly. He wads up some paper towels, checks his watch--

“Shit.”

He’s late to pick up Max. He hadn’t actually thought they’d let him stay for practice.

Billy speeds toward the middle school still in his gym shorts and sneakers, still in his Hawkins High Basketball t-shirt, with the only warm-ish clothing he’d had balled up in his backseat pulled on over it--Harrington’s red sweater.

Max is bouncing up and down on her heels. It’s getting dark out, but she’s a flash of energy and red hair in his headlights as he takes the turn and pulls up against the curb. She runs toward him when she sees the car, and he can tell she’s pissed by the way she yanks the door open. “Asshole,” she snaps, “It’s cold. Where the fuck were you? I’ve been waiting twent--” she stops dead, halfway into the car, when she sees his face, his bleeding eyebrow. Her voice goes soft, suddenly, uncertain. “Billy?”

“I got into a fight at practice,” he says. “It’s why I’m late.”

“Did you re--”

“Yes, Maxine,” he snaps, feeling tired all of the sudden. He can’t remember the last time he’s had to answer this many questions about the conversations his dad has with him. He can’t remember the last time this many fucking people knew this much about it, but apparently this is something he and his little sister--step sister--talk about now. 

She nods once and then clambors the rest of the way into the car, settling down into the seat. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s shivering. Max hasn’t shaken her California climate either. Billy turns the heat up, feels more than a little guilty. 

They’re halfway to the arcade when he says, “Why didn’t Harrington just get you when he picked the other ones up?” He’s annoyed. Harrington can be pissed at him all he wants, but he shouldn’t leave Max out there alone in the cold. She’s a little fucking girl and that building looked empty.

“Mrs. Henderson picked them up,” Max said. “Dustin’s mom. I said I didn’t want you to worry if I wasn’t there.”

Billy thinks, absently, that it was kind of good of Max to think that, because he would have worried. Maybe more about her than he would have before, when his biggest thought would have been how fucked he’d be if he lost her again.

A bigger, more important thought--the one he focuses on--is that Harrington always picks the kids up for the arcade. Especially on late AV club days. Billy drums his fingers on the steering wheel, off time to the music, can’t seem to keep a beat or still their motion. He needs an entire pack of cigarettes. He can feel Max staring at him, but she doesn’t ask. 

“Two hours,” Billy warns her once they get to the arcade, as she’s starting to get out of the car. “It’s family dinner tonight.”

Max grins at him, “Fix your eye,” she says, then adds, “Don’t be late again,” with a smirk that’s like looking in a mirror, “Or I’m fucking walking!” and then she looks so honestly startled that the words came out of her mouth that Billy laughs, and then he laughs at the joke too, and it is the lightest he has felt all day.

“Sorry, kid,” he says and means it. “I won’t be late.”

With a gun to his head, Billy will never own up to the warmth the smile she beams back at him makes him feel. He waits in the parking lot until he’s sure she’s inside, watches through the window as Lucas runs up to her and points excitedly at something behind him, watches her red hair disappear behind a game and--when he’s sure she’s not coming back out--he drives away. He’s got two hours to kill and he’s pretty sure his eyebrow is bleeding again.

Another thing Billy won’t admit even with a gun pointed at his head: he drives by the high school and Harrington’s house. He doesn’t find his car at either spot.

~

By the time Billy pulls back up outside the arcade one hour and fifty-five minutes later, his eyebrow has stopped bleeding and he’s pulled on jeans and boots instead of shorts and sneakers. Max isn’t outside yet, but she’s still got some time, so Billy gets out of the Camaro, leans up against it, and lights a cigarette.

Billy hears the music before he sees the car. His eyes are closed and his head is tipped back, exhaling smoke at the dark and starry Hawkins sky. It’s some stupid love song, too sappy to be allowed to live, and Billy opens his eyes, ready to sneer at whoever it is except--

The car shuts off. It’s Harrington. _Finally_.

“Hey,” Billy says the second Harrington opens his car door. Fuck. He sounds so goddamn eager.

Harrington doesn’t--look great, actually. He’s a little pale and his hair is droopy. Billy thinks his hair looks sad and then wants to kick himself for thinking anything about Harrington’s hair at all. His eyes look a little glassy, too, bruised underneath like he hasn’t slept in days, even though Billy just saw him yesterday and he looked fine. 

“Can I get a cigarette?” Harrington asks, and his voice is low and raspy. Billy hears it, feels something pool warm in his stomach. Then Harrington adds, “Is that my sweater?”

“I was late to pick up Max,” Billy says, passing a cigarette to Harrington once he’s leaning up against the Camaro next to Billy. “I left my jacket in the locker room. It was the only warm thing in my car.”

Harrington’s eyes linger on Billy’s eyebrow for a second, but he doesn’t ask. Says instead, “You’ve had my sweater in your car since January?” Harrington asks, his voice still lower than normal, even a little blank, even though he’s technically making fun of Billy. It’s missing something, something that makes it sound like _Harrington_. Billy glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

Billy doesn’t have an answer to his question that isn’t _yes_ , and he’s not fucking saying that out loud, so he pulls his lighter out instead. Harrington sticks the cigarette between his lips, and Billy’s distracted for half a heartbeat by how fucking red they are, just like this stupid sweater, right up until Harrington leans forward so Billy can light the cigarette, and then Billy’s distracted by everything.

Harrington’s eyes are so fucking dark and his cheeks are getting some color back, a red flush from the chill in the March breeze or something else. Billy can see every one of Harrington’s eyelashes this close, can hear the sound of his breathing. Harrington holds his gaze, doesn’t flinch away. Honestly, he looks worse this close, and Billy’s still--he’s still fucking into it, is the problem.

Billy lights the cigarette and Harrington inhales. They both lean back against the Camaro. Their shoulders are almost touching.

“Didn’t see you much today,” Billy says, going for casual. It’s about as successful as it was with Nancy. Harrington looks at him, looks suspicious for a second, then just shrugs. He just looks tired, then.

“I had a shitty day.”

“What’s a rich kid like you got to make his day so shitty?” Billy asks, and honestly he’s going for _conversational_ , but he knows the second he says it that it was the wrong thing to say. Harrington’s mouth tightens at the edges. “I mean--” Billy says, trying to backtrack, wondering when he became the kind of person who tries to backtrack in conversation, “I mean that sucks. What happened?”

“Wow, Billy,” Harrington answers, but it’s lacking some of the bite it should have, “That sounded almost human. Nice work.” He pauses, taps ash off the end of his cigarette. Billy watches it float toward their feet. “It’s hard to explain,” Harrington says after a long pause. “Shit happened this year and I’m still--” he rolls his neck, his shoulders, “Dealing with it. I guess.”

Billy can understand that. He leans toward Harrington a little bit, before he can really stop himself, presses their shoulders together. There’s a moment where Harrington’s tense next to him, and then he slumps into Billy, their sides pressed together, and Billy feels like he’s the only thing keeping Harrington standing. They stay like that for a while, Harrington a warm weight at his side, both of them just breathing.

A bell chimes, the door to the arcade, and Billy hears laughter. Harrington straightens up instantly, peers around Billy and plasters on a smile that almost looks convincing.

“Steve!” the curly haired one--Dustin--shouts. Billy watches him run over and attach himself to Harrington’s side in a tight hug. It’s so fucking easy, the way Harrington drops his arm to squeeze the kid’s shoulders, returning it without flinching, like being tackled by an eighth grader--by anyone, really--isn’t a little weird or unsettling. “I didn’t see you at _all_ today, man. You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Dustin,” Harrington says, laughing a little. The kid’s right, though. Billy agrees. Harrington looks like a fucking mess even though he’s trying to hide it.

“Are you ok?” it’s not Dustin who asks, but the smallest one. He’s standing behind the other two, close to Nancy’s little brother’s side. He’s got the biggest fucking eyes that Billy’s ever seen. Byers. It’s Byers’s brother.

“Of course,” Harrington says, and Billy would know it was a lie even if he couldn’t see the bags under Harrington’s eyes, the paleness still in his cheeks, the slump of his shoulders. He can’t even meet the kid’s gaze when he says it. All four of the boys shuffle nervously, exchanging glances. The curly haired one is still clinging to Harrington like he’s going to vanish.

“Billy,” Max says. As one the kids’ eyes turn to her and then to him, like they’re just noticing he’s there. Four pairs of eyes narrow in unison. It’s really fucking disconcerting. “We have to go. We’re going to be late.”

Shit.

“Get in the car, Maxine,” he says.

“Here,” Harrington hands Lucas his keys. “Get in. Don’t drive it.”

 

They scamper off, clambering over each other, but Billy can feel all four pairs of those eyes on them. Max has the good grace to be looking out the other window, at least. They need to go. They’ll be late, but Billy’s never seen Harrington look this fucked up, not even after Billy wrecked his face, and he doesn’t--he doesn’t really want to leave him.

“Your sweater,” Billy says, starting to tug it off.

“No,” Harrington answers, and Billy can’t see him because he was starting to pull the sweater off, flinches when Harrington’s hand lands on his shoulder, unexpected, but not--not unwelcome. He just didn’t know it was coming. “Sorry,” Harrington says quickly, and Billy pulls the sweater back down over his head. “Keep it, I mean. The color looks good on you.”

And then he’s gone, climbing into his car and shooing not one, not two, but _three_ children out of his seat. Billy lingers for a moment longer, thinking about _the color looks good on you_. They’re already going to be late. He’s already in trouble. He might as well get to watch Steve Harrington drive away.

“Billy,” Max calls, pushing the door open. “We have to go.”

“Yeah,” he says. He gets in the car, drives away. “Did you have fun?”

Max looks suspicious. “Is that Steve’s sweater?”

Billy stares straight ahead. “Yes.”

Max _sounds_ suspicious. “Why do you have it?”

Because he doesn’t want to give it back. Billy drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “That night it was raining and my dad had my keys in January,” Billy says, slow, deliberate. “You called someone and told them to have Harrington come get me, didn’t you?” That shuts her right up. She looks out the window and crosses her arms. Billy waits, but she doesn’t say anything. “Ok,” he says, “Well he did. I was soaked and he let me borrow some clothes. I just haven’t given it back yet.”

Max turns her head again. He can feel her eyes on the side of his face. “Oh-kay,” she says, drags the word out long. She shrugs, pushes the hair out of her face. “You’re going to be in trouble that we’re late.”

“It’s ok,” Billy says, and it isn’t, but also it is. He’d been waiting all day to see Steve Harrington and he’d gotten to. It’s worth being a little late to dinner.

~

It’s 11:42pm and Billy’s sitting in his room, looking in his mirror with a flashlight and poking his re-split eyebrow. It’s looking worse for a second hit to it and Billy’s pissed. He’s hoping it doesn’t scar. His dad is serious about a lot of things, but family dinner especially. It’s about being _together_ and definitely not about keeping your sister away from time with her family because you were probably out trying to impress some local whore. At least, that’s what his dad had told him anyway, once Max and Susan went to watch tv. Another _conversation_ about all the ways Billy disappoints.

Billy sniffles and wishes he wouldn’t. He wishes his eyes weren’t so fucking red rimmed and watery. He wishes he didn’t live in this fucking house or this fucking town with his fucking dad. He wishes--

Someone knocks on his door. Billy jumps so hard he drops the flashlight and sends everything flying off the stack of crates that support his mirror, it plunges the room into darkness.

“Fuck,” he hisses, then, “Dad?” a little louder. He’s caught now, either way.

The door cracks open. “It’s me,” says Max, her voice very small. He can see her red hair in the light from the hallway behind her.

Billy’s grateful for the darkness, drags a hand across his cheeks and eyes to wipe away--anything there, tries to cover the next ragged breath he sucks in with the sound of putting things back on the shelf. “Is everything ok?” he asks her, because Max is not in the habit of knocking on his bedroom door at night. She’s literally never done it.

“Can I come in?” she whispers.

“Yeah. You don’t have to whisper. Are you ok?” he asks again, not sure why it matters so much.

“I’m fine,” she says once the door is shut behind her. There’s just the light from the window, now. Billy can barely see her outline as she reaches along the wall, looking for the lightswitch. Billy thinks about how weird it is that she lives in this house and doesn’t know where the lightswitch is in this room. She fumbles for another few seconds and he uses the extra time to drag a hand across his eyes again. He looks away from her when she finds it, floods the room with light.

“I brought this,” she says. She still sounds small. He looks back up and she’s holding up a container of--of fucking rubbing alcohol and some bandages, her shoulders up around her ears. Billy chokes on something like a sob, tries to hide it in a laugh. What the fuck is happening in his life, he wonders, a little blank.

“Maxine,” he starts, tries for casual, has to clear his throat because his voice cracks a bit on the end of her name. He should really stop trying for casual because it never fucking _works_ anymore, apparently, maybe Hawkins doesn’t do casual or something, or--

“I just wanted to make sure you’re ok,” she says, nearly a whisper.

He’s not going to cry in front of his stupid little sister. He is not going to fucking do it. For a second--a horrified second--he thinks that she’s going to walk across the room and like, try to tend to his wounds or something, but she doesn’t. She sets the rubbing alcohol and the bandages down on the floor next to his door and stands up. “Night, Billy,” she says.

“Night,” he answers, and then she turns the light off and leaves. Billy grabs the rubbing alcohol, hisses as he dabs it onto his cut, slaps a bandage on it so he doesn’t get blood on his sheets, and then crawls into bed. He’s fucking exhausted. He hates this stupid fucking town.

Billy falls asleep. He tells himself he’s not crying, that he doesn’t cry about shit like his dad or this stupid fucking house. He wonders when he became so fucking bad at lying to himself.

~

He and Max do not talk about it. They don’t talk about it on Thursday morning when Max blinks at the bandage over his eye and then almost smiles across the kitchen table at him. They don’t talk about it when he drives her to school or when they head back home, very on time for dinner. Billy hates the smug looks on his dad’s face when Billy sits down at the table early, thanks Susan for her cooking. Hates that his dad knows the shit he does to Billy apparently fucking works, keeps his piece of shit son in line. Billy feels hot all over thinking about it, curls his fingers white knuckled around his fork and stares at his plate the whole meal.

They don’t talk about it on Friday, either, not when Max bounds into the Camaro with a huge smile on her face after a few hours at the arcade, “I crushed Dustin,” she says, delighted. “His spirits, his soul, his high score--” she’s still laughing when they pull into the driveway. Susan and his dad aren’t home and Billy can’t go out with them gone, he’s not fucking stupid, so he makes them dinner-- “Pizza bread?” Max asks, hopefully, and Billy sighs and nods. They watch a stupid movie. He doesn’t have plans until Saturday, anyway.

He’s thinking about Harrington and staring at the screen.

In school on Thursday, Harrington hadn’t looked any better. Billy heard one of the other kids saying that he’d heard Harrington throwing up in the bathroom that morning, making a grossed out face about it. Billy’d tried to talk to him a few times, but Nancy was always hovering, or Byers, and he couldn’t seem to get Harrington alone. When it’s just the two of them, like outside the arcade Wednesday night, it seems so simple. Throw anyone else in the mix and Billy feels any ounce of trust he has dissolve. He can’t get Harrington alone. They don’t talk about whatever’s putting that strange look on Harrington’s face. It’s different than the crackle of energy Billy’s always chasing. It’s not that Harrington’s edges are less jagged. It’s just--it’s like they’re jagged because he’s crumbling, now.

Friday, Harrington leaves school early. Billy knows because they’d been parked next to each other, and Harrington’s car disappeared around the middle of the day. Billy figures that means Harrington’s regular sick, or something. He should stop fucking worrying or whatever it is he’s doing. He remembers lighting Harrington’s cigarette the other day and hopes he doesn’t catch it. 

On Saturday, Max is sleeping over at a friend’s house, so Billy has no problem getting permission to go out and have a little fun. Ashley from chemistry is throwing a party--her parents are out of town--and Billy’s felt on edge enough all week that he’s looking forward to the chance to get a little fucked up.

It’s at her party, Billy on only his first fucking beer, that Tommy claps a hand on Billy’s shoulder--Billy hides the flinch with a truly disgusting burp--and whistles low. “Ho-lee shit,” Tommy murmurs, close to Billy’s ear. “Look at Harrington. What a joke.”

Billy’s going to deck Tommy one of these days for just fucking grabbing at him like that, but the suggestion is compelling, so instead of hitting Tommy in the mouth like he wants to, Billy turns his head, lets his gaze roam across the room of sweaty, half-drunk teenagers. He finds Harrington easily. Billy’s eyes go a little wide.

“Man, I knew he was falling apart this week. Simone said he was practically _shaking_ in English, but would you look at that,” Tommy pauses to laugh again, smacking a hand against his thigh. “Someone could do anything to him right now,” Tommy continues. “Beat the shit out of him. Rob him blind. He’d never fucking know it.” 

Billy’s thinking that Tommy would never have the guts to say that to Harrington’s face, let alone do it, if Harrington looked anything close to sober. “Fuck,” Billy says quietly, and he’s not talking to Tommy, but the stupid shitstain responds anyway.

“Right?” and Tommy laughs harder when Harrington stumbles, catches himself on the wall. Jesus. He’s fucking _wasted_.

It sounds like Tommy’s getting an idea. “I’m pretty sure he carries a ton of cash on him,” Tommy adds, thoughtful now. “He always used to buy all our shit. Jesus, Billy, it’d be so easy to just--” Tommy makes a grabbing motion, mimes putting something in his pocket. “We could even take that fucking car,” he’s laughing now. Billy can see him really warming up to the idea. “How the mighty have fallen. Do you think--”

Billy cuts Tommy off right in the middle of his monologue. He slams his bottle of beer against Tommy’s chest and Tommy grabs it on reflex. It splashes, but Billy ignores Tommy’s muttered swears about it staining his shirt.

Billy crosses the room in ten seconds. It’s not hard. People in Hawkins get out of his way.

“Harrington,” he says, “What are you doing?”

Harrington is standing at the bottom of a staircase, glaring at it. “Fuck _this_ ,” Harrington sneers, but Billy gets the feeling that he’s not talking to him. Harrington slams his cup, frothy blue liquid and all, against the wall. Billy watches it drip down to the carpet. Ashley is going to be pissed about it tomorrow. “Stupid fucking _stairs_ ,” Harrington continues. He lifts his leg likes he’s going to walk up them, then puts it back down. “Stupid fucking _everything_ ,” he adds, looking a little sulky now.

Underneath the drunk temper tantrum about stairs, or whatever, though, Billy can see there’s something else. That same tiredness that had Harrington slumping against Billy’s shoulder. Harrington’s got those bags under his eyes, the same pale skin. He looks wrecked, still. Worse even than he had on Wednesday.

“Harrington,” Billy says again, but Harrington ignores him or doesn’t hear him, too intent on kicking the stairs. “Steve,” Billy tries, “Hey. _Steve_?”

He grabs Harrington’s wrist, yanks him back from the stairs, and Harrington stumbles, nearly falls. Billy catches him against his chest. Harrington’s back is warm, even through both of their t-shirts. Billy uses the arm he’s got looped around Harrington’s waist now to back them both up, out of the living room. He half drags Harrington down the front steps into the yard.

“What the fuck,” Harrington says, “Get off me. Jesus, Billy.” He’s all off balanced anger, tilting left and then right once Billy lets him go. With a few feet between them, Billy can really get a good look at him. Drunken silliness aside, lack of coordination aside, Harrington’s wearing that darkness on his face, now. Billy knows angerfearshame when he sees it.

“You’re wasted,” Billy says. “Are you with someone? Byers? Wheeler?”

“Nope,” Harrington says, jaw tightening. “Just me. What do you fucking want, Billy?”

Billy doesn’t think _I want to get you home before Tommy does something stupid_ is going to convince Harrington of anything. “I want to take you home,” Billy says, because casual doesn’t work so he might as well go for honest.

Harrington blinks at him. “Ok,” he says suddenly. He sags a little, tips forward on his feet, but doesn’t quite fall. “Ok,” he says again, softer. “I want to go home.”

The twist from messy drunk to just--done, vulnerable like that--gives Billy whiplash, but he nods and pokes Harrington in the shoulder. “Did you drive?” he asks.

“I drove with Tommy,” Harrington says, and Billy’s not a good person, he knows that about himself, but Tommy’s just a fucking _shitstain_. Billy would do that to someone, probably. Ditch them at a party when they got sloppy and boring, when they weren’t the most interesting thing in the room. He wouldn’t do it to Harrington, though. No one should fucking do that to Harrington. Billy’s going to fucking break Tommy’s teeth.

He herds Harrington toward the Camaro with a lot of effort. Billy’s mom always used to talk about herding cats when she was trying to get him ready for something. Billy thinks this--drunk Harrington, pliant as he’s gone--is probably harder.

“Do you still have my sweater?” Harrington asks once they’re in the car.

“Do you want it back?” Billy asks, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Maybe,” Harrington says.

“It’s in my room.”

“Let’s go there. Your room.”

It’s a slow wash of--a fucking lot of feelings. Billy’s wondering what Harrington means with that, he’s wondering if Harrington means what Billy _thinks_ he does. He’s picturing walking through his front door with a drunk and angry Steve Harrington, the look on his dad’s face, and it would almost be funny if the idea didn’t leave fear wrapped in a vice grip around Billy’s spine. “We’re not going there.”

“Fine.” Harrington turns his head and looks out the window. “You didn’t have to--,” he waves his hand around, a vague gesture at himself. “I was _fine_.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not some stupid simpering little--whatever,” Harrington snaps.

“Simpering? That’s a fifty dollar word if I ever heard one,” Billy answers, going for teasing.

“I can fucking handle myself,” Harrington says, looking at Billy now. Billy can feel the heat of his gaze on the side of his face. “You probably think I can’t because of--that time at Jonathan’s, but I had bigger--bigger problems than _you_ and I did fine. I can fucking handle myself.”

Billy wants to ask what those problems were, but he doesn’t. 

Harrington just won’t shut up, though. He keeps talking about being able to handle himself, the same thing, over and over and over. “Should’ve left me there,” Harrington keeps insisting. There’s a few moments where Billy thinks he’s going to try and jump out of the car, and then one where he actually does try. Harrington throws the door open and Billy slams on the breaks so fast the car slides a bit on wet pavement, tires squealing, but Harrington can’t figure out the seatbelt and doesn’t actually get out of the car. He just kind of sits there for a second, Billy’s car stopped, Billy’s eyes wide, Harrington half hanging out the open door, tethered by the seat belt.

Then, behind them: sirens.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Billy swears. “Shut the fucking door. Don’t say _anything_.” His dad is going to kill him. Probably literally. Billy slams his head back against the headrest and wishes he’d just let Harrington deal with his own shit at the party. He seems so sure he could have handled it himself. Billy should have just _let him_. Fuck.

Sucking in a slow breath, Billy straightens up in his seat, rolls down the window when the cop walks up. “Hi, officer,” he says. Billy’s a mouthy little shit, but he doesn’t mouth off to cops. Angry cops call home. Cops he’s polite to, though, might just let him off with a warning.

“Do you know why I pulled you over, son?”

“Yeah, my friend was just being fun--”

“Hey, Hop,” Harrington interrupts. Billy whips his head so fast his neck cracks. He blinks at Harrington in horror.

“Did I not,” Billy hisses, “Say that you should not fucking say _anything_?”

“Steve?” now the cop is leaning in Billy’s window, shining a flashlight in Billy’s face first and then Harrington’s. Hop. Hopper. It’s the fucking chief of police. 

Billy squints against his flashlight and thinks that he’s never been so screwed in his life, except for one time, and thinking of that one time makes his stomach churn, so he doesn’t think about it.

“You look like you’re having a good night, kid,” Hopper says to Harrington. The light goes back into Billy’s face. “You been drinking?” Billy shakes his head, sees the moment the cop registers who he is. “Hargrove, isn’t it? Max’s brother?”

“Step-brother,” Billy corrects on reflex.

Hopper’s light moves from Billy’s face back to Harrington’s, his eyebrows drawn together. “Didn’t know you two were friends,” he says.

“We aren’t,” Harrington says, a little bitter, with such force and finality that Billy feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. He sucks in a breath, looks at Harrington again, but Harrington’s staring straight ahead, his hands clenched into fists in his lap.

“I pulled you over,” Hopper says, and Billy turns back to look at him. The flashlight is in his face again. It’s making Billy’s head hurt. “Because Steve here was trying to jump out of the car.” He pins Billy under his gaze, Billy keeps his fingers wrapped tight, white-knuckled around the steering wheel. “Do you want to be in this car, Steve?” Hopper asks, but he’s still looking at Billy. 

He keeps calling Harrington _Steve_ and he knows Max, so Billy’s pretty sure he’s totally fucked. It’s going to look like he--like he kidnapped Harrington or something, Jesus, this is what he gets for trying to be _nice_. He fucking cared, at that party, what happened to Harrington and now he is definitely going to get arrested. The fear that had settled at the base of Billy’s spine creeps back up again. He wonders if he can get arrested without his dad finding out.

Billy’s staring straight ahead out the window, Hopper’s flashlight still on his face, waiting for Harrington to say that he doesn’t want to be in this car, because they aren’t friends, so that Billy can just get arrested already. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

Billy jumps a foot in the air, can’t hide the flinch, when Harrington’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezes. He wasn’t fucking expecting to be touched. His breathing comes a little faster, but he hears Harrington saying, “Yeah, Hop. I’ve had a--” he pauses, hand still on Billy’s shoulder, leaning into Billy’s space and peering at Hopper out the window. Billy can hear Harrington breathing, feel the warmth leeching off him, the hand on his shoulder still squeezing. Billy can feel Harrington’s thumb rubbing circles into his skin through his t-shirt. 

Billy can’t breathe. 

“I’ve had a bad fucking week, but I want to be in this car,” Harrington settles on, and the flashlight moves from Billy to Harrington’s face again, a little slower. It lingers for a second on Billy’s shoulder, where Harrington’s hand rests, before moving back to Harrington’s face. Billy turns his head a little bit, trying to see what Hopper thinks, trying to see what he’s seeing. Harrington’s cheek is so close to Billy’s mouth as he leans across Billy’s lap that Billy could lean forward and take a bite out of him.

“You’re drunk,” Hopper says, and Billy can’t read the tone. “And you look like shit, kid.”

“Yeah,” Harrington agrees, nodding right along with the words.

Billy doesn’t understand what’s happening. Harrington still hasn’t let go of his shoulder.

The flashlight swings back to Billy. “You’re taking him home?” 

“Yes, sir,” Billy says.

“Try to keep him in the car from now on,” Hopper says with a heavy sigh. Again the flashlight is back on Harrington. “Call me tomorrow. In fact, swing by the office. Bright and early. We should talk.”

Harrington nods. “Ok. Thanks, Hop.”

“Yeah,” Hopper says. “Don’t worry about it, kid. You both have a good night, now.” Hopper bangs twice on the roof of the Camaro. “Head right home.”

He walks away, back toward his truck. Billy’s staring blankly at his retreating back, can hear him say into his radio, “It’s Hop. There’s a Camaro heading through town--I’ve already handled it, so don’t worry about it if you see it,” and then Billy hears the door slam, hears Hopper drive away.

Harrington is still holding his shoulder, still practically in his lap. Billy doesn’t realize his hands are shaking on the steering wheel until Harrington lets go of his shoulder, sits up more, and then leans awkwardly over to cover Billy’s shaking hands with his own. Harrington’s fingertips are rough, but his palms are dry and warm. Billy slumps back in his seat, rests his head back against the headrest. “Holy shit,” he says. “I thought for sure I was getting arrested.”

“Sorry,” Harrington says, still sounding drunk, but serious, too. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

It’s a long time before Billy sits back up. He doesn’t want to say he’s grateful for the warm hands on top of his shaking ones, but he really fucking is. Harrington doesn’t let go until Billy shrugs him off, puts the car in drive, and heads back toward Harrington’s house. 

“How do you know Hopper?” Billy asks once he gets his voice back.

Harrington looks out the window, seems to draw in on himself. “A girl died in my pool once,” he says. “Hopper helped make sure she got--that they figured out why.”

“Did you kill her?” Billy asks, half joking, half wondering.

“I might as well have,” Harrington answers.

Billy drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Is that what you meant when you said you’ve been through some shit?”

“It was part of it. What started it, I guess,” Harrington says, “Well. For me at least.” He flexes his hands. Billy watches him out of the corner of his eye, thinks about how fucking warm those hands were on top of his a few seconds ago. Billy doesn’t know how to need someone, but he thinks he might need Harrington, and that’s the scariest shit he’s ever thought in his life.

Billy doesn’t get to have Harrington. He doesn’t get any of it. Not ever a-fucking-gain.

Harrington doesn’t say anything else and so Billy doesn’t push him to add detail about the dead girl in his pool. They drive the rest of the way in a silence that’s almost comfortable. “Here we go,” Billy says, pulling up on the curb outside. The house is big and dark and empty. “Home sweet home,” Billy adds, when Harrington doesn’t move. He’s just kind of staring up at it. There’s a moment when Billy thinks Harrington’s going to ask him to come inside, but he doesn’t.

He looks back at Billy and then there’s a moment when Harrington leans forward, leans in, and Billy licks his lips, because for a moment he thinks Harrington might--could--

“Thanks, man,” Harrington says, his voice so soft in the air between them. He’s so close, Billy can feel him breathing.

Harrington moves slowly, lifts his hand. For a second, Billy, confused, just tracks the movement. He doesn’t flinch when Harrington’s hand lands on his shoulder, and then he gets it. Harrington was signalling him, warning him-- _I’m going to touch you_ the slowness of his hand had said, and Billy had understood. Hadn’t felt--scared, surprised.

Harrington rubs the pad of his thumb over Billy’s collarbone in little circles. “Sorry about trying to jump out of your car,” Harrington says.

“It’s fine,” Billy murmurs, leans into the touch more than he means to.

“Night, Billy,” Harrington says, starting to pull away.

“Night,” Billy answers, and then Harrington gets out of his car and stumbles up toward the big empty house. Billy doesn’t drive away until he’s inside. 

Harrington must turn every single light in the house on once he gets in there, Billy thinks. He doesn’t, as far as Billy can tell, turn any of them off. Billy idles outside his house for a few extra minutes. He tells himself it’s because he’s curious. He knows it’s because he doesn’t want to leave.

That night, when he gets home, Billy lies in bed and listens to the sounds of the sleeping house around him. He thinks about the way Harrington’s thumb had felt drawing little circles in his skin until he falls asleep.


	3. III

If Billy is expecting anything major to change in the wake of his run in with the law, he’s sorely disappointed. But then again maybe he isn’t expecting anything major to change. Harrington waits for him, leaning against the beamer with his arms crossed in the mornings. After school, Max eyes him with suspicious eyes that over the course of the next week change to almost knowing. Billy feels that _known_ ness like breath across the back of his neck. He tries to do what Harrington does--to ignore the fear it instills, to push it all the way down.

“Are you and Steve friends now?” Max asks him on the Wednesday after Hopper pulled them over. It’s been a good and quiet week, no noise from his dad, and honestly--aside from dinner--Billy hasn’t really seen him. The more he can avoid him the better and with the days creeping longer--as long as Billy’s around for food and watching Max--it’s easy enough to stay out of the house.

Easier now that he mostly brings Max with him places. He still hasn’t taken her to the basketball court yet. He isn’t sure he ever will. Aside from the coach who told him about it, the only other person who knows is Harrington. Billy would kind of like to keep it that way. 

“Maybe,” Billy says.

“I mean you seem like friends,” Max says. “You wear that sweater a lot. He stands at the car with you when we’re late coming out of the arcade.”

“That’s because you are _always_ late coming out of the arcade,” Billy sighs. “We’re arguing about who is going to have to go in and drag you out.”

Max eyes him for a second. Billy drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Finally, she crosses her arms and slouches down in her seat. “It doesn’t _look_ like arguing,” she says, sullen.

Billy laughs. He can’t help it. Lately he’s felt a lot more like laughing.

“I wish I’d realized how weird you were,” Max adds, blinking at his laughter, her expression still sullen, but something like a smile at the edges. He slows to a stop at a light and looks at her. He just looks at her. He thinks about a time when he hated her. She glances at him, but looks away fast. “I didn’t realize how weird you were,” Max says again, and the light is still red, and she’s still not looking at him, “Until you got less angry.”

Something twists in Billy’s gut. The light turns green. When he glances to the side, Max is staring at him, like she’s not sure what he’s going to do next.

Billy offers her a smile.

~

On Friday, there is a girl who Billy doesn’t know standing outside the middle school with Max. Her hair is curly. She has the most serious face that Billy’s ever seen. Billy pulls up to the curb and waits for Max.

He watches as she says something to the girl. The girl nods. Max motions toward the Camaro and they both walk forward.

“Hi,” Max says, pulling open the door.

“Hi,” Billy says. He turns in his seat and watches the girl he doesn’t know climb into the back of his car. She meets his gaze and doesn’t look away. “Uh, Maxine. Who’s your friend?”

“El--” Max pauses, looks in the back seat, shrugs. “Or Jane? El,” she decides. Billy thinks teenage girls are so fucking weird about nicknames. “She uh. Can we give her a ride home?”

“Sure,” Billy says through a sigh. He glances at the time. It’s getting close to dinner, but Max is good at explaining, will tell his dad that they were late because Billy helped a friend of hers--a normal looking, if kind of scary _girl_ friend--get home safe. “Where do you live, El?”

“With Jim,” the girl says. It’s the first thing she’s said. 

Billy glances at Max. “I’m going to need a little more to work with than that,” he says.

Max looks shifty all of the sudden. “She’s uh,” she says slowly. “She’s Hopper’s--daughter. She lives with him.”

Billy blinks. He’s never heard anything about Hopper having a daughter, but it’s not like he’s tuned in to the town gossip, or what the fuck ever.

“Full disclosure,” Max continues. “I’m pretty sure he thinks Steve is bringing her home.”

Billy had thought Harrington would be picking them up, too. At school that day, though, Harrington had been quiet. He hadn’t looked good at all. He has bad days, sometimes, that’s what he’d said when Billy had finally told him he looked terrible. He has trouble sleeping sometimes. Sometimes shit is just too much, and Billy gets that, so he’d walked Harrington over to the payphone by the high school, leaned against it and glared at anyone when he got too close.

“I’m going to ask Lucas’s dad to pick the kids up,” Harrington had said, sounding small and tired, and Billy had rested a hand against the small of his back, a kind of instinct when Harrington had looked for a moment like a strong breeze would blow him over. Sometimes, Harrington had explained, his rough days are filled with anger--that’s the energy Billy’d noticed. Sometimes, though, he’s just _exhausted_. Billy had rested his hand in the small of Harrington’s back because Harrington had looked exhausted and it did something weird to Billy’s chest to see him like that.

“Ok,” he’d said. “I’ll get Max, then.”

His dad doesn’t like the Sinclairs. Billy doesn’t want it to become a thing if it doesn’t have to be.

“Sorry,” Harrington had said, looking at him, looking sorry. “I know you wanted to play basketball today.”

“It’s fine,” Billy had answered, surprised how much he meant it. Harrington had called the Sinclairs, who agreed to pick the kids up and then Billy had walked him back over to their cars. “Are you all right to drive?” Billy had asked, once Harrington was standing there with his keys out. Billy had been fighting the absurd urge to _hug him_ or something.

“Yeah,” Harrington answered. “I’m just gonna go home and--” he’d hesitated, “try to sleep, I guess.”

Which is why Billy is sitting in the Camaro, now, with Max and Hopper’s apparent daughter, who is either called Jane or El, Max doesn’t seem sure. And Hopper, who pulled Billy over nearly a week ago under suspicion of kidnapping, is expecting Harrington--who appears to be some sort of babysitter? Nanny? Friend? to the assorted children of Hawkins--to drive his daughter home.

Fucking fantastic. 

“Does either of you know where Hopper lives?” Billy asks when no additional information beyond _he’s expecting Steve_ is forthcoming.

He’s thinking about Harrington, though, more than his second potential impending arrest. He’s thinking about how tired he looked, and how Billy wishes--wants--to be able to do something more for him. He’s thinking about how warm Harrington had felt under the palm of Billy’s hand, even through his shirt, the March air blowing all around them. Billy’s chest does something weird again.

In the back of his car, the girl says, “Oh,” and then she says, “Interesting.”

Billy groans. “As in, oh, interesting, I don’t know where I live?” he hazards.

This makes the girl smile, wide. “I like you,” she says, still looking at him. He can feel her eyes on the back of his head, so he turns to see her. Under her gaze, Billy feels like he sometimes does when people stare at bruises, like they’re looking for a story. Under her gaze, Billy feels like he sometimes does when Max looks at him, like he’s _known_. She’s still looking when she says her second, “Oh,” although this one is quieter and sounds sad. She presses her thumb to the underside of her jaw, which is fucking weird actually. Billy has a scar there from two days before they left California. From a ring.

“Listen,” Billy says, “Do you know where you live?” 

This girl is too fucking old to not know how to get home, right? He fucking hopes so. Max is looking between them and she’s not quite laughing, but she’d made a small, weird sound when the girl had touched her jaw, and Billy doesn’t fucking like not being in on the joke.

“Yes,” the girl says. “Drive.”

Billy wonders when the fuck he started being ok with little girls ordering him around. “Yeah, Billy,” Max says, “Drive.”

Billy--well, he drives.

~

Billy likes that his engine is loud. Likes that it makes people stare. Likes the attention it gets, that it makes people know he’s coming.

Normally. He likes that normally.

He likes it less when, just as the sun is really starting to give up and Hawkins is a strange sort of grey-blue, he pulls up to Hopper’s--cabin in the middle of the fucking woods--in a car that screams that he is definitely not Steve Harrington.

The door opens. Hopper walks out onto the porch.

Billy’s never seen him not dressed as a cop, although he guesses Hopper must do things like run errands and get food with friends. It’s still kind of weird to see him look so casual. Well, his clothes are casual. His expression is anything but.

“El,” Hopper says, getting to the car right as the girl is getting out. “Why don’t you show Max that new--” he pauses, “Thing, you got.”

“I didn’t get a new _thing_ ,” the girl says.

“Yeah you did, kid. The new thing. Show Max.”

“Oh,” she says, head tipped to the side. Then, “I like him. Friends don’t lie, Jim.”

“We’re not friends,” Hopper answers. Billy doesn’t need the glance in his direction to know they’re talking about him. Max is sitting with the door half open look uncomfortable. “El, take Max inside so I can talk to Billy.”

“Better,” the girl says, grinning widely. Billy has a feeling this girl might order everyone around and not just her accidental driver. Max gets out of the car and the two walk inside, their heads bent close together, whispering.

Billy gets out of the car, too. Walks around to lean against the side Hopper is standing on. “Hi, sir,” he says. “I hope I didn’t get her home too late.” Billy is a mouthy shit, but never to cops, and definitely never when Max needs him to bring her home. That second part is a new development. He’s still trying to work it out.

“No,” Hopper says. “You’re on time. It’s just that I was expecting Steve to drive her home.”

Billy weighs his options here. He’s figured out that Harrington and Hopper have some sort of relationship. That night when Hopper had pulled him over, Harrington had told him about his day and Hopper had seemed to get it. Billy weighs his options and decides on honest. “Harrington wasn’t doing great,” he says. “He asked the Sinclairs to pick the boys up, but--” honest, he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to give too much away, “but my dad doesn’t like them, so I told him I’d pick Max up. I don’t think he realized your daughter would be there or he wouldn’t have--”

“She doesn’t go to the school,” Hopper interrupts. “He wouldn’t have known she’d be there.” Hopper frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. “You smoke?” Hopper asks.

Billy figures everyone does. He nods, though. He feels better the second he takes the first drag. He likes having something to do with his hands. 

“You and Harrington seem close,” Hopper says. “That’s a little different.”

That’s a fucking understatement. “Yes, sir,” Billy answers.

Hopper looks at him for a long, silent moment. “Your dad--” he starts, and Billy’s jaw goes tight. Hopper holds up a hand, “Nevermind,” he says. He turns back to the house and Billy wonders if Max has told everyone his bullshit, or if maybe Harrington has, or maybe this guy is just a good cop. Hopper turns back toward the house, but then looks back at Billy. Billy has the strange feeling he’s being--evaluated. “She said she likes you,” Hopper says, but it doesn’t really sound like he’s talking to Billy. There’s a long pause, Hopper’s eyes on him. Billy has a feeling that if he had a flashlight, he’d be shining it in Billy’s face. 

Finally, Hopper turns back to the house again. “El!” Hopper shouts, but not really loud enough that Billy thinks either of the girls is going to hear him. Still, the door opens and two heads poke out, one curly, one bright red. “Tell Max goodbye. She and her brother need to head home for dinner, I’m guessing.”

Max and the girl grin at each other, framed in the light from Hopper’s cabin. Billy can’t hear what they say, but they talk for a moment before Max jogs down the steps. “Bye, Hop,” she says, which is the same thing Harrington had called him, which is a weird thing for a little girl to call the chief of police.

“She your step sister?” Hopper asks him once Max is in the car. 

Billy takes a drag from the cigarette. “Yes, sir,” he answers finally.

“You almost have the same eyes,” Hopper says, and Billy thinks of Max’s bright blue eyes, her steely calm, and thinks no, they don’t, her eyes aren’t fucking scared and angry like his are, but doesn’t say anything at all. “Anyway,” Hopper says. “Thanks for bringing her home. If you see Harrington, tell him--” Hopper pauses. “Shit, I don’t know. Tell him he knows where to find me if he needs to talk.”

Billy nods. “Yes, sir,” he says, which is mostly the only thing he’s said in this whole conversation.

“Billy,” Hopper says, walking around to the driver’s side. “Just a second.” Billy’s halfway into the car, but he stands up, looking at Hopper. “She’s adopted. It’s not new, but we’re still adjusting,” Hopper pauses. “Don’t talk about her,” he settles on, and it’s not as threatening as Billy thinks it could be, but it isn’t unthreatening, either.

“Yes, sir,” Billy says. 

Hopper nods, claps a hand on Billy’s shoulder. Billy flinches so hard his back hits the car. Hopper squeezes his shoulder, looks interested. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn't mean to scare you. Get home safe.”

He turns to walk back inside and Billy gets into the Camaro. He watches through the windshield as Hopper, framed in the light of the doorway, wraps an arm around his daughter’s shoulder and squeezes.

Billy drives away.

When they get home, his dad says, “You’re late,” and Max says, “Billy drove my friend Jane home. From math class? Her mom got sick and couldn’t get her, but she lives kind of out of the way so it took a long time.” Max lies to his father like she isn’t afraid of getting caught. Billy’s heart feels like it’s trying to climb out of his chest.

“All right,” his dad says. “Set the table for dinner, Billy.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy says, his voice quiet. It feels different than when he’d said it to Hopper. There’s some shit he just can’t think about.

~

At basketball practice in the middle of the next week, Billy’s guarding Harrington and up for a challenge. It’s been another good week, no fights on Billy’s end, no conversations with his dad. Just--a really normal fucking week. Billy’s grateful for it, even as he bares his teeth at Harrington and drops down into a crouch. Harrington dribbles the ball like he’s got a plan. Billy doesn’t want to let him win.

“Watch him,” the coach is yelling as Harrington dribbles. Billy moves with him, tries to crowd his space. Harrington backs up, but not like he’s giving up, like he’s going to do something and Billy doesn’t want to let him. “Stick with him, Hargrove!” coach yells. Harrington takes a few steps back, and Billy sticks with him and--

Too late, Billy realizes his mistake. Harrington’s got the height on him and a wide open player behind Billy. He passes. Billy doesn’t have to turn around to know Jason makes the shot. He can hear them cheering.

“Better luck next time,” Harrington says with a grin, jogging past Billy and accepting a high five from someone on his team.

“I don’t need luck,” Billy snaps, “I’m better than you.”

He proves it the next time he’s got the ball, waits for Harrington to move toward him, nails a perfect jump shot, the ball doesn’t even touch the net. Billy gets a few cheers for it. David comes up behind him, slaps Billy on the back, “Way to go man,” he says. Billy thinks the only one to see him flinch was Harrington, hopes he only saw it because Billy suspects he was looking for it.

“You don’t like being touched, do you?” Harrington asks after practice. They’re the last ones lingering outside the gym. It’s not raining yet, but it’s gotten dark, and the parking lot is orange under the streetlights. It’s definitely going to rain, Billy can feel it in the air. He sticks his hand out from under the canopy outside the gym doors, feeling for moisture. Nothing.

“If you want to touch my dick, Harrington, you just have to ask,” Billy answers, a reflex more than with any real intention behind it. Harrington blinks at him with wide eyes. Billy can see a flush coloring his cheeks. After a second, Billy gives in. “You’re such a fucking baby deer,” Billy says, sighing. “It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” Billy adds, thinking of Harrington’s thumb rubbing circles into his skin on the way home from that party, thinking of Harrington leaning into his space, across his lap. “I don’t like--being surprised by it.”

“You should like, tell people, or something, man” Harrington says. “So they stop touching you in practice like David did.” So he saw the flinch. Billy mulls that over. 

Harrington says to tell people like it’s obvious, like it wouldn’t be weird for Billy to look at David and say, _don’t touch me._ It would be really fucking weird. Billy shrugs. “It’s fine. I’ll hit someone if they bother me enough.”

“That seems stupid,” Harrington says, but when Billy cuts an irritated glance at him he’s almost smiling. “You get more flies with honey, or whatever.”

“I don’t want any flies at all.”

“You haven’t hit Tommy.”

“He has his uses,” Billy says, kind of absently, looking out over the dark parking lot.

“Does _he_ touch your dick?”

Billy sputters, startled to hear it come out of Harrington’s mouth, and Harrington laughs at him, just laughs, except Billy doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. He shoves his hands in his pockets, “Fuck you,” Billy says.

“Is that an offer?” Harrington asks and Billy thinks, _that’s my line_ and Billy thinks _yes_ and Billy thinks about the California hills disappearing in his rearview mirror and doesn’t say anything at all.

Harrington doesn’t seem to mind the silence. He stands there like a king surveying his land, sweeping his gaze back and forth across the orange glowing parking lot. It’s really and truly dark, now. It must be getting late. “I should go pick Max up,” Billy says, breaking the silence, surprised to realize how close Harrington’s standing to him all of the sudden, less surprised by how little he minds it.

“You really went from not giving two shits to being the perfect brother, didn’t you?” Harrington asks from next to him. 

It happens slowly so it doesn’t startle Billy, but first there’s inches between them and then Harrington’s shoulder is pressing into Billy’s. He’s just as warm as he was the other night, practically a furnace. Against his better judgement, Billy leans back.

“She’s all right,” Billy admits, gruff.

“She’s an impressive kid,” Harrington answers, and Billy shivers when fingertips graze his wrist, glances at Harrington out of the corner of his eye.

“I guess,” Billy says. He thinks about shifting away, but Harrington’s turning toward him now, and there’s almost no space between them at all. If Billy turns too, if he faces him, Harrington will have Billy with his back against the wall, will be looking down at him with those dark eyes. “Harrington,” Billy says, voice a little hoarse, “What are you doing?”

“Just talking,” Harrington says, “And dawdling. I have to get Dustin soon.” He doesn’t step back, still so close Billy can feel the heat from him. Billy wants to turn and face him. Fuck, he wants to turn and press his back against the wall, let Harrington crowd into his space. Let him touch whatever he fucking wants to touch. Harrington’s fingers graze his thigh, his hip. Billy can’t stop himself, turns into it, faces Harrington.

Exhales.

Harrington grins at him, just that little bit taller, backs Billy against the wall. Billy can smell him, cologne and shampoo, both expensive. Harrington’s hand lands on Billy’s hip, push his t-shirt up a little. _What are you doing_ , Billy wants to scream at him, finds that he can’t.

Billy’s breath stutters on a sharp inhale when the pad of Harrington’s thumb slides against the ridge of his hip. When Billy lifts his eyes up, Harrington’s so _close_. He’s grinning. “This ok?” Harrington says, hand sliding higher, palm warm against Billy’s side.

They’re on the edges of the school parking lot. Billy’s half hard in his jeans. This is the best thing in the fucking world. This cannot happen.

Still, he can’t seem to make himself stop it as Harrington’s hand slides around to the small of Billy’s back, as he tugs Billy in closer. This close, Billy can’t really see him anymore, can just feel Harrington’s nose against his jaw, then--then his lips. Billy’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know what this is, this exploration of his skin, Harrington’s lips trailing along Billy’s jaw. He inhales a little shakily, lifts his hand up from where it’s been hanging useless at his side to drag his fingers across Harrington’s stomach, across the waistband of his jeans--

A car honks somewhere, too close for comfort.

Billy shoves Harrington back like he’s been burned, his eyes too wide, breathing too hard. “I--” he starts, doesn’t know what to say, can’t do this, couldn’t ever do this. Stupid. He’s so fucking _stupid_. On the edge of his tongue is something nasty, something he doesn’t know if he’d be able to take back. Billy swallows it down, hard, tries to be something better. 

Harrington’s looking at him, calm like the sky before the storm, certain in a way that makes Billy clench his jaw. Billy feels like the roiling sea, like waves crashing into rocks, like doom and destruction. He wants to snarl that anger in Harrington’s direction. He swallows hard again. Harrington’s still looking at him, something like a smile at the corners of his mouth.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks, half a purr, like the car horn honking wasn’t a warning from some higher power, like this is normal. 

Billy shuts his eyes. Opens them again. “I need to get Max,” Billy says, shoves past Harrington, checks him hard enough with his shoulder that he hits the bricks with an _oof_.

“Billy,” Harrington says, looking uncertain for the first time. “Billy, hey--”

But Billy isn’t stopping, doesn’t turn around even though Harrington’s calling his name.

He gets in the car, drives to the middle school, collects Max, doesn’t say _anything_ to her at all, not even when she asks why his hands are shaking. Billy says, “Shut the fuck up, Maxine,” mean enough that she just does.

Driveway, crumbling steps, yellow door. Billy pushes into the house and doesn’t make eye contact with his dad, just in case he can tell, or something. Billy doesn’t fucking know. He still doesn’t know how his dad figured it out last time, and Billy’s not--he’s not taking a fucking chance.

He eats his dinner and he says thank you to Susan and then he goes into his room. It’s only when he’s sure everyone else in the house is asleep and the silence closes warm and safe around him that he gets into bed. Only then does he wrap a hand around himself, close his eyes, and let himself imagine what might have come next. Harrington’s lips at his jaw. Billy’s fingers trailing over the waistband of his jeans.

He comes with Harrington’s name on his lips.

Fuck. He’s so _fucked_.

~

The next morning, Harrington acts so normal standing at his locker that Billy doesn’t know what to do with his face. It’s like nothing ever happened. He’s half wondering if this is some sort of sick joke, if Harrington is in on something with--he doesn’t even know. Tommy, maybe. His dad. The fucking FBI, whatever. He’d put some stock in the idea, too, if the thought weren’t so laughable. Harrington doesn’t seem the type, probably couldn’t keep a secret, definitely couldn’t act for shit. Jesus, Billy’s fucking tired.

Billy ignores Harrington at his locker, except to shove past him. He doesn’t go near it for second period.

Third period, outside of a science class he definitely is not in, Harrington walks up to Billy and says, “You’re avoiding me.”

“No I’m not,” Billy answers, feeling like a child. “I’m not,” he insists. “Whatever, fuck.”

“Not whatever,” Harrington says. “If this is about last night, you seemed fine with it--”

“We aren’t talking about this,” Billy snaps. “We are definitely not talking about this in the middle of the fucking hallway, are you serious?”

Harrington has the grace to look a little abashed. “Then let’s talk about it--”

“There is. Nothing. To talk about,” Billy says, very slowly. “Get that through your thick fucking head.”

Harrington’s cheeks flush. “Fuck you,” he says. “I’ve been trying to find you so I could tell you that I’m getting Max after school today to make up for last week,” he pauses, his cheeks still red and a little angry, “So you don’t have to fucking worry about it. Jesus,” and then he walks away, leaving Billy standing in the hallway.

“Fuck!” Billy says, with feeling. He slams his fist into a locker for good measure. The sound echoes.

There’s a lot of school day left, but Billy doesn’t fucking care. He shoves his stuff in his locker, swings by the gym to grab his basketball stuff and walks right out the front door, middle finger up. He hopes the fucking _principal_ sees. Fuck this town. Fuck everyone. Billy doesn’t give two _shits_.

If Harrington’s getting Max then there’s no reason for Billy to hang around. He speeds out of the parking lot, music too loud, and tries to find somewhere that’ll sell him a drink.

~

He ends up, a few hours later, out at the basketball court with a pack of beers, a buzz, and a huge fucking chip in his shoulder. He’s miserable. The hours of driving around, finding something to drink, and doing donuts in empty parking lots had done nothing to take off the edge that had been building since the night before with Harrington. Stupid. 

Billy’s so fucking stupid.

He chugs a beer and, with it heavy in his belly, doesn’t get much of a warm up in. He gives up on running after one circle of the court, drops down into the damp grass and presses his forehead into his knees. He breathes. He’s got all the time in the world to sit out here and feel fucking sorry for himself.

It’s cloudy, still, but like the sun’s trying, even though it’s starting to set. A few weeks into March and it’s stayed warm, is only getting warmer. Things, especially out here in his abandoned little park, are starting to look a little greener. It’s pretty, almost. It’s got nothing on California, but it’s not as bad as it was in the middle of winter, snow and ice and cold making Billy’s mood even worse.

Not that his mood could get much fucking worse at this point, but being able to be outside--to be _here_ \--it makes it a little better.

Billy never realizes how much of the day he spends surrounded by sound until he gets out here. 

In this empty Indiana silence, Billy can hear the echoes of his day. His dad’s footsteps in the hallway, Max’s bright laughter when she greets her friends, Susan digging around in the fridge for something. There are these little placemarkers at home that he’s always trying to hear, to figure out where everyone is, to stay out of the way. Out here there’s just fucking silence except for the birds. Billy doesn’t feel on edge, claustrophobic, like something could be coming for him. He just exists. 

Billy lets his head lull to the side, thinks about the new sounds he’s been hearing, lately, or maybe listening for. It’s mostly Harrington. Harrington talking, and laughing, and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Billy’s been getting used to the way it sounds when Harrington breathes.

His mom would’ve liked Harrington, Billy thinks.

He’s so fucking stupid.

He sits there on the ground feeling sorry for himself long enough that he starts to feel cold. As it gets darker out here it gets a little creepier, but it’s still kind of pretty. The shadows stretch out from the trees, but the sun is still making the sky glow blue, and everything else is turning green. He doesn’t want to leave. Billy hauls himself to his feet, thinks about checking the time, grabs the basketball instead. He doesn’t even feel drunk anymore, just that burning combination of exhausted and angry, confused and so stupid.

_Smack, smack, smack_. Billy picks up the easy rhythm of the dribble, lets muscle memory take over and carry him to the top of the key.

_Swish_. The ball sails through the net, another perfect shot. Billy grins.

Behind him, slow applause.

Billy spins around, hackles raised, but it’s just--it’s just Harrington. He’s leaning against the Camaro and wearing stupid sunglasses--it’s getting dark, what an asshole--another sweater in an absurd color. He’s not wearing his jacket, but it’s folded neatly over the hood of Billy’s car. “Not bad, Hargrove,” he calls as the applause trails off. Harrington crosses his arms in front of his chest, offers Billy a smile.

“What do you want?” Billy asks, grabbing the ball and jogging toward Harrington against his better judgement. There’s no version of this moment, Billy realizes with growing dread, where he doesn’t cross the court and go to Harrington. Billy hasn’t particularly enjoyed the last twenty four hours, but it’s been an easy week. He’s had no trouble with his dad. There are no bruises for Harrington to gawk at or cluck over in his awkward, half-caring way, so Billy lets himself believe that the eyes Harrington drags over his chest are admiring. Thinks he’s still so stupid, drifts toward him anyway, can’t stop himself. “Don’t you have to pick up the kids?”

“I did,” Harrington says. “It’s after five, Billy.”

Billy glances up at the sky, a little bit surprised. He’s lost track of time, wonders where the whole day has got to. When he doesn’t say anything else, Harrington adds, “I thought you might be out here when Max didn’t know where you were.”

Billy doesn’t know where they stand. He doesn’t understand why Harrington’s out here when Billy had acted like an asshole a few hours ago. He doesn’t understand why he’s letting Harrington stand here and blink at him with those big, stupid, baby deer eyes. “Here I am,” Billy agrees. Harrington just looks at him. Billy thinks of practice the night before, of the flash of heat in Harrington’s eyes, of the warmth of his skin. He should tell Harrington to go the fuck away.

“Want to play?” Billy asks instead, holding up the ball.

“What, so you can beat me again?” Harrington settles more comfortably against Billy’s car, his arms still crossed in front of him. “I don’t think so.”

Billy walks a little closer, close enough that he can see that tiredness that Harrington sometimes carries around his mouth and in the hunch of his shoulders. He’s pale, a little bruised looking under the eyes. Harrington doesn’t look up for playing basketball. Billy wonders how he’d missed it, earlier, the way that Harrington looks like he’s crumbling. Billy tosses the basketball to the side, still not sure if they’re in a fight or--or what, but he walks up and leans against the car next to Harrington. “You look like shit,” he says.

“Thanks,” Harrington huffs out a laugh, carding a hand through his hair and glancing at Billy through his eyelashes. Billy needs a fucking cigarette, looking at Harrington looking like that. “I’m not sleeping much,” Harrington says after a long pause.

Billy grins at him. “Yeah? Parents keeping you up? Bet your dad’s a screamer.”

“Gross.” Harrington makes a face. “My parents are away. Business. New York, maybe.”

Billy would give almost anything for his dad to go away on business for a few days. Or for forever. “Can’t sleep when mommy and daddy are away?” he asks before he can stop himself, too biting, too mean. Billy ducks his gaze. “I mean--”

“I know what you meant, Billy,” Harrington says, sighs. “Look,” he hesitates, then plows on. “Do you--do you maybe want to come over tonight?”

Billy thinks of how fucking warm Harrington’s skin is, of the way he smells, wants to drag his teeth over Harrington’s pulse, thinks of that stupid red sweater, thinks of Harrington getting home that night and turning every light on, thinks of Harrington not being able to sleep. 

Around him, the court is silent, a little green, getting dark, nearly pretty. This place doesn’t feel like part of Hawkins, like part of any world Billy’s lived in. It feels outside the rules--silent, secret, safe. Billy thinks of Harrington’s warm skin, of him not being able to sleep in his big, empty house. Billy thinks of California disappearing in his rearview mirror. He looks away from Harrington, stares out at the court, hears the wind in the trees, a crow calling out, hears Harrington’s breath, inches away.

“Sure,” Billy says before he can talk himself out of it. “I can come over.”

“Ok,” Harrington agrees. Billy realizes then that they’re both looking away from each other, making no eye contact at all. It got weird pretty fucking fast, Billy thinks, for two people who were snapping at each other at some lockers a few hours ago. He wonders if Harrington knows what he’s doing.

“I’m gonna go--” Billy motions toward the court, his ball.

“Yeah,” Harrington says. “I’ll see you tonight?”

Billy knows what _he’s_ doing even if Harrington doesn’t. That’s the scary part. He knows how it ends, too. He still can’t fucking stop himself, can’t think of doing anything with his night but spending it with Steve Fuckng Harrington. He’s watching his own car crash happen, and he wants to get his hands in Harrington’s hair. This doesn’t end well. 

Billy nods, smiles almost, says, “Yeah. It’s a date,” and he’s going for casual, but it falls flat again.

He turns to jog back to the court and scoop up his ball, but not fast enough to miss Harrington laugh quietly or the red flush that creeps up from his neck and spreads over his cheeks. This time, Billy’s listening for the sound of Harrington leaving. He isn’t surprised when he turns around and he’s alone again on the court.

Fucked. Billy is so _fucked_.

~

That night, when his dad’s asleep, when the house is silent around him, Billy climbs out his bedroom window, walks to his car, and drives to Harrington’s house.

It feels bigger than it is, the drive across a silent and sleepy Hawkins. Like taking a risk--or no, that’s not right. It doesn’t feel like taking a risk. It is taking a risk. Point fucking blank. Billy thinks of his dad sleeping at home and sticks his middle finger out the window. He bangs his hand on the steering wheel to music he isn’t playing and thinks that it’s not really a risk. It’s a certainty. it’s like falling. It’s a fucking rush, but it ends with a splat. Every time.

He still pulls up outside of Harrington’s house, though. Still turns off the car, still walks up to the door, knocks, says, “Hey,” when Harrington opens it.

He’s in jeans and a comfortable sweater. Billy’s got his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He grins, wicked, when he catches Harrington looking. “Like what you see?” Billy asks, bolder now, stupid with the theory that Harrington wants the same things.

Billy can fuck around with Steve Harrington as long as he ignores the part of himself that had thought, not too long ago, that he might need him. 

“You got something to drink?” Billy asks, doesn’t fawn about Harrington’s big house or the rule about taking his shoes off. He’s been here before, one night in January, more broken in some ways than he is now. Less broken in others.

Harrington leads him into what Billy assumes is his dad’s office, produces a key that’s stashed behind a picture of a woman Billy assumes is Harrington’s mom-- “Your mom’s a looker, huh?” Billy says, staring at the cut of her dress for a little too long. Harrington groans, and Billy laughs. “I’m just saying, I can tell where you get it from.”

That makes Harrington flush a little. This is going to be _fun_.

Billy does whistle when Harrington sets the bottle down on his dad’s desk, though. “That’s some good shit, Harrington.”

“He won’t notice,” Harrington says, like that’s the most important part, and not the--what, hundred dollar?--bottle of scotch he’s set down. Billy doesn’t even really like scotch.

Harrington grabs two glasses and Billy grabs the bottle, and they wander back into Harrington’s living room. Billy wonders, again, if Harrington knows what he’s doing or if he’s just acting like he’s got his shit together. They sprawl out on the couch, not quite touching, and Harrington pours.

“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass against Billy’s. “To my big fucking empty house and my absent fucking parents.”

“Cheers,” Billy echoes, then--because they’re sharing, apparently--“to my piece of shit dad from his piece of shit son.”

He feels Harrington’s eyes on him as he takes a gulp of the scotch--it’s disgusting, Billy really fucking doesn’t like scotch--but Harrington doesn’t comment and so Billy doesn’t either. When they both lean back against the couch their thighs are touching, pressed together. Harrington’s like a furnace, like he’s always on fire.

“You still look like shit,” Billy says.

“Fuck you,” Harrington answers. He shifts away, and Billy thinks for a second that he’s already fucked this up, but then Harrington’s putting his glass down, turning toward him, settling himself straddled over Billy’s lap. _Oh_.

Harrington leans down, “This ok?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Billy says, voice hoarse, and then Harrington just--kisses him.

Billy’s thought about this more than he’d like to admit, but actually kissing Harrington is nothing like he’d thought it would be. Harrington’s gentle about it, the slide of his lips against Billy’s is slow, and Harrington lifts a hand to cradle Billy’s cheek in his palm, bites down on Billy’s lower lip. Billy groans a little, can’t help it, feels Harrington smiling against his mouth.

Billy shifts enough to reach over and set his glass, still full, on the end table. He pushes his hand up under the back of Harrington’s shirt, slides his palm over the small of Harrington’s back. He can feel Harrington shiver under the touch.

Harrington drags his tongue across Billy’s lower lip, and Billy’s mouth opens for him, no hesitation. The first drag of Harrington’s tongue against his, still slow, patient, _careful_ , like Billy is something delicate, has Billy seeing stars. Billy feels like he’s melting, a puddle at Harrington’s feet, pulled in like the tide. He is helpless in the face of Harrington’s soft hands, warm mouth. Wouldn’t want to stop him even if he thought he could.

Harrington runs his thumb along the line of Billy’s jaw, tips his head to the side so the angle’s better, and Billy just lets him, feels warm all over, pliant, needy. He pushes his hand up higher under Harrington’s sweater, drags his nails down Harrington’s back. Harrington shudders at the touch, moans lowly. The sound goes straight to Billy’s dick.

Harrington’s hand drops from Billy’s jaw, Billy feels the heat of his fingertips against his bare chest. Harrington pushes past the fabric, drags the pad of his thumb across Billy’s nipple and Billy sucks in a breath, breaks the kiss panting. “Do you--” he stops, doesn’t even know what he wants to ask. _I’m going to bowl you over_ , Billy wants to warn him. He’s thinking about what the highway looks like after a car crash.

“Shut up,” Harrington says, breathing hard, cheeks flushed. He presses his lips against Billy’s, tilts his head, licks past the part in Billy’s lips and kisses him again, and again, and again. Billy thinks of waves crashing on the beach, thinks that he could come back to this a thousand times, crashing like the tide at Harrington’s feet. Anything he wants. Anything. Billy would give it up if Harrington would just--stay.

They kiss until Billy’s breathless, until he’s slumped into the couch, until Harrington’s lips are red, and swollen, and he’s pulling away, breathing hard and laughing. Billy’s more than half-hard in his jeans, and it looks like Harrington is too, but he rolls off Billy then, tucks himself against Billy’s side and reaches for his glass of scotch. Billy looks at Harrington for a second, thinks _that’s it?_ out of habit, finds he doesn’t really mind. Harrington’s big dark eyes are staring at him again, but he still looks tired, something like exhaustion clinging to the edges of him and something else too--Billy can’t quite place it. Harrington takes another sip--a second sip, Jesus, they’d gotten distracted--and splays the fingers of his free hand out over Billy’s chest.

Billy grabs his own glass, takes a sip, wonders if that’s it--if Harrington’s gotten it out of his system and Billy’s going to have to figure out what to do next, feels fear creep up his spine at the idea of _next_ , but Harrington doesn’t pull away, just sits there, curled against Billy’s side, his mouth red. Billy wraps an arm around him, doesn’t even really mind when Harrington’s eyes drift shut. “I haven’t slept in like, three fucking days,” Harrington murmurs, and then he fucking _falls asleep._

This is--new for Billy. He doesn’t really do cuddling, or holding, or honestly even just kissing with no end game. Here, though, he’s got Harrington alone and it’s so fucking simple to keep his arm around him and sip his scotch, to carefully pluck Harrington’s glass out of his hand and set it down so that it doesn’t spill everywhere, to watch the clock tick until he’s falling asleep himself.

Billy wakes up around three in the morning because the Harrington’s have a big fancy clock, and it won’t fucking stop _chiming_. He peers at the clock and swears under his breath. Harrington’s parents might be out of town, but Billy’s dad sure as hell isn’t. “Hey,” Billy says. Harrington’s drooling on him. It doesn’t gross Billy out as much as it should. “Harrington, wake up.” Billy shakes him again, and Harrington whines, but he does open those stupid big brown eyes and blink slowly at Billy. “I gotta go home,” Billy says.

“Stay,” Harrington murmurs, pressing closer into Billy’s side. Something in Billy’s chest feels tight.

“I can’t,” he whispers back. “I have to take Max to school in the morning.”

Harrington lifts his head and blinks at him. “What time is it?” he asks, scrubbing sleep out of his eyes.

“Like three.”

“Shit,” Harrington looks a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to just fall asleep. I had a plan.”

Billy grins, pushes hair out of Harrington’s face. “Did you?” he asks, voice low.

Harrington lifts himself up, leans into Billy’s space, kisses him again, long, and slow, and deep. When he pulls back, Billy’s still leaning toward him, lips still parted, like he’s waiting for more. “I did,” Harrington whispers. Billy wants to ask him where he fucking learned to kiss like that. 

“I have to go,” he says instead, and Harrington nods, stands up, holds out both hands to Billy. Billy takes them and Harrington pulls him to his feet, walks him to the door, watches Billy put his shoes on.

Billy isn’t sure how leaving is supposed to go, here. Normally he’d sneak out while whoever was still asleep, and Harrington’s definitely looking sleepy, but he’s also awake, looking at Billy, and Billy doesn’t fucking know what he’s supposed to do with that.

Harrington crowds him up against the still closed front door, brackets his hands on either sides of Billy’s head, presses kisses down Billy’s jaw, across his throat. “Just so you know,” Harrington murmurs, lifting his head back up and pressing his lips against Billy’s ear. “My plans involved blowing you.” Billy’s jaw drops and Harrington laughs, kisses Billy’s bottom lip and squeezes his shoulder. “Next time,” he promises, stepping back. “Goodnight, Billy.”

Billy doesn’t even remember how he got to the Camaro, doesn’t remember saying goodbye, the door opening or closing. Mostly, he’s thinking about the way Harrington’s lips would look wrapped around his dick, about his big eyes staring up at him.

He’s also thinking about the way Harrington kissed him, slow, deep. Billy drops his head forward and rests against the steering wheel for a few breaths. He’s so completely and totally fucked.

He’s gone for Steve Harrington. This is a fucking sick joke.

~

The next day is Friday, and at school Harrington acts different, but not in a we-made-out-on-my-couch kind of way. He’s waiting for Billy, leaning against the side of his car when Billy finally pulls up from dropping Max off.

“Hey,” Billy greets.

“Morning,” Harrington answers. He looks better, like he’s slept a little bit. Billy thinks that he did that, that he’s the reason Harrington looks a little more rested. Something warm blooms in his chest.

His dad must not have noticed Billy coming in late last night, must not have even noticed he was gone. Over coffee this morning, waiting for Max, he hadn’t said anything about it, except to remind Billy that he and Susan had a date planned and so Billy needed to be home right after school, Max in tow. Billy can handle that. It’s been nearly a week and a half since his dad has had anything to say to him other than directions. Every bruise on his body is practically gone, and Harrington’s smiling at him around a cigarette. Billy figures out what that warmth in his chest is. It’s a cautious happiness, growing green like the trees at his basketball court, coming back to life. It feels--he feels--good.

“You look better,” he says, kicking Harrington’s foot lightly. There’s no one around to see it.

“I feel better,” Harrington says. “You look good,” he adds, and then he’s stepping closer to Billy, but he moves slow, so Billy doesn’t jump when Harrington’s hand lands on his shoulder. If anyone’s looking, it’s a friendly gesture, but the pad of Harrington’s thumb rubs circles into Billy’s collarbone, just for a second.

The thing in his chest might be growing fucking _flowers_.

Harrington grins at him, lets go. “Come over tonight?” he asks. “After practice?”

“I can’t. My dad and Susan are going out. I’ve got Max.”

Harrington nods. “All right. I have--my parents are in town tomorrow,” he pulls a face. “I’m meeting important clients or something. They’re hosting.”

“Sunday?” Billy says, hates that he sounds eager, couldn’t sound anything else if he tried. “The basketball court?”

“Sounds good,” Harrington says. “I’ll be free around 5.”

“It’s a date,” Billy says, echoes himself, can’t fucking help it. Flowers and like, bushy little leaves. Maybe even fruit, or something.

Friday is good. Practice is good. They linger outside the gym for a few minutes before they both head out. Harrington leans half against him, a warm weight at Billy’s side and Billy, under the orange lights in the parking lot, feels reckless and outside the rules. He slings an arm around Harrington’s shoulder and presses his lips--just for a second, a millisecond--against Harrington’s temple. Billy thinks about Sunday, about the warm March sunlight on that desolate court, about the silence that will be broken only by Harrington’s breathing, the little gasps Billy plans to coax out of him with careful, clever fingers. It isn’t just feeling good, Billy realizes. It’s feeling hopeful. Billy thinks that he could get used to feeling good, feeling hopeful.

Later, Billy will think that thought was probably his first mistake. 

He doesn’t make it to the court on Sunday. 

He doesn’t know how long Harrington waits there for him. Honestly? Billy can't find the fucking energy for it to matter. Billy wakes up feeling good and hopeful and then his dad--intervenes. Sunday is _bad_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just keep adding one more chapter onto this every time I finish one. Oops.


	4. IV

Billy doesn’t really remember the details.

He remembers walking into the kitchen. He remembers thinking about Harrington’s--hair or something. He remembers his dad being one room over, sitting on the couch, watching a--a game, maybe. His dad calling him into the room, his dad saying oh, well, hadn’t Billy slept late, saying Max and Susan were out. Billy thinks he’d maybe dropped a plate he’d been holding or bumped a table and broken a lamp, Billy’s hip is _throbbing_ from where he’d hit it on the corner of a table, maybe that’s what had started everything. Mostly, he remembers the sound of ceramic shattering, although that could have been after the low anger he’d heard in his dad’s voice. 

His dad doesn’t like him. Billy’s always known that.

It hasn’t been this bad in a long time, though. It reminds Billy of what he’d done to Harrington. He remembers that night, the details of each hit, as he starts to pick himself up off the floor. He can hear his dad running the faucet in the kitchen. Billy would close his eyes, but one of them feels pretty swollen and the other one is watering, so he doesn’t.

“Billy,” his dad’s voice coming from the kitchen, loud enough to carry over the faucet, makes Billy want to throw up. He drags himself to his feet and curls an arm around himself, poor protection if there’s anything coming next. “Max and Susan won’t be back until late. I’ll be out for dinner.” 

The sentence is so normal and his dad’s voice is calm again, like Billy’s blood isn’t on his living room floor, like he wasn’t running cold water over his knuckles. Billy sags against the wall, breathing too hard, and waits.

Billy waits until he hears his dad go down the hallway, hears his bedroom door shut. He almost always gives Billy the privacy to get out of his sight before he has to see him again. His dad doesn’t like sticking around to admire his handiwork.

Billy glances at the clock. 1:30pm. He’s supposed to meet Harrington at the court at 5.

It doesn’t matter. Billy half stumbles, half drags himself down the hallway, doesn’t look in his mirror, throws a towel over his pillow so he doesn’t have to worry about blood on the sheets, crawls into bed, and falls asleep.

He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.

~

Around 10:30 that night, there’s a knock on his door. Billy wakes from sleep in half a panic, jumps out of his skin when the knock comes a second time and it fucking _hurts_ to jump. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. Caring hurts, and so he doesn’t. If that’s his dad at the door--fuck it. Whatever happens is gonna happen. Billy couldn’t get out of bed if he wanted to--and he doesn’t want to.

“It’s me,” Max’s voice is soft from the doorway. She turns on the bedroom light. Billy thinks of her with her fucking rubbing alcohol and bandages. He doesn’t want her to see him, but the light’s on now. He doesn’t want her to see him. The last time his dad had a _conversation_ with him and it’d gotten this ugly had been right before they left California, but Billy doesn’t fucking think about that, either. Tries not to. Has been thinking about it a lot, lately.

“Go away,” he says, doesn’t roll over in bed to look at her. Doesn’t have the energy. Thinks it’ll probably really fucking hurt if he looks at her, isn’t sure he just means in the physical sense. He doesn’t want her to see his face, the bruises, the--emotions--whatever, fuck. He needs her to leave.

“Are you ok?” Max asks. The concern in her voice is so audible it makes his stomach hurt.

“Go away,” he says again, feels awful and sick and angry. 

“Billy--”

“I said go _away_ ,” he snarls, sitting up enough to throw the book on his nightstand in the general direction of his bedroom door, where she’s standing. He misses and that’s just--he can’t even fucking get that right, can he? It fucking hurt to move that much, hurts to look at her, hurts to breath this hard and heavy, would hurt to cry if he were going to let himself. She looks at him for a long minute, her lip trembling and now Billy feels guilty on top of all the different kinds of hurt. Billy lies back down and--with some effort--pulls the blankets up over his head. 

He hears the door click shut when she leaves.

That’s fine. That’s better. Billy feels numb and sore all at once, and he does not _fucking_ care. He remembers, again, that he was supposed to meet Harrington. Billy’s chest aches and everything hurts, and so he decides he doesn’t care about that, especially. Billy falls asleep.

When his alarm goes off for school the next morning, Billy knocks it off the nightstand. He doesn’t get out of bed. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking _care_. That’s what he thinks, face pressed into his pillow, shoulders shaking a little and his hands fisted in his hair, curled into himself. It hurts. He doesn’t care.

He draws in shaky breaths, gets himself together enough that his shoulders stop heaving. He wipes his face and that fucking hurts, too. He isn’t sure how much time has gone by when there’s another timid knock on the door. It wakes him from the half sleep he’d managed.

“Billy?” 

It’s Max. Again.

“Go away,” he says.

“Are you coming to school?”

“Max,” Billy breathes, “ _Please_ \--just go the fuck away.”

“Oh-kay,” Max says slowly. “I’ll get Steve to pick me up.” She sounds worried, uncertain. Max shuts the door and Billy lies in bed, feels hot all over, feels exhausted. She’d said Harrington’s name and it makes his stomach hurt and hurt and _hurt_.

When he’s sure the house is empty, that Susan’s gone, and Max is gone, and especially that his dad is gone, Billy hauls himself up and gets a glass of water. He leans on the wall as he’s walking, shuffles into the bathroom to survey the damage. 

It’s--it’s bad, he thinks, looking at himself in the mirror, at his face. He lifts up his t-shirt to peer at his chest and stomach and thinks that’s bad, too. Of course it fucking is. It wouldn’t hurt like this if it were normal. When the school finally calls looking for him, Billy pretends to be his dad and gives an excuse, the flu, a stomach bug. He gets back into bed. He doesn’t really get back out of it for the rest of the day.

Max doesn’t knock again, but he hears her come home, hears Susan come home, hears the low rumble of his dad’s voice laughing at something while they’re all eating dinner. No one tries to get him to join them. Eventually, they go to bed. Billy falls back asleep. 

Sunday was a dream, the idea of lying in the mid-March sun with Harrington on the hood of the car was a dream. Monday isn’t even a nightmare. It’s just another fucking day, for Billy, that he spends in bed curled around some bruises while the world keeps fucking spinning all around him.

Tuesday morning comes and Billy still feels like shit. He wakes up to the sounds of the house waking up, but Max doesn’t knock on his door, doesn’t come to ask if he’s taking her to school. She leaves him alone, and Billy can’t decide if he’s grateful or disappointed. He reminds himself that he doesn’t fucking care.

Billy stares blankly at the wall, listens to Max run the sink, the chug of coffee brewing. He can smell it, the coffee, creeping under his closed bedroom door. One by one, Billy hears the sounds of people leaving. He can’t tell if any of the car sounds that he hears are Harrington picking Max up. It’s strange to think of Harrington pulling up outside this house while Billy lies in bed and stares blankly at the wall. Billy wonders if Harrington is angry with him. He remembers that he doesn’t care.

Finally, his dad leaves too. He’s always last out of the house. He doesn’t knock or try to talk to Billy before he leaves, so he either doesn’t know Billy’s home or doesn’t care. Maybe he knows there’d be more trouble for him if Billy tried to go to school looking like he does. It doesn’t matter either way. His dad leaves him alone and Billy falls back asleep. When the school calls he gives them the same excuse. He won’t be in today, he’s a mess, real sick and tired. It’s not even a fucking lie.

Two days before they’d left California, Billy’s dad had beaten the shit out of him. They’d had to go to the hospital and there had been a lot of questions. Neither of them had much liked that.

Three days before they’d left California, Billy’s dad had caught him on the beach with another boy. The rest is history. The rest is Hawkins.

On Tuesday and Wednesday, Billy mostly sleeps. He gets up for water and to piss when he’s sure the house is empty, but otherwise he just lies in bed and waits for something to happen. It’s late on Wednesday night, his third skipped day of school, when Billy’s stomach really grumbles for the first time. He can’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything.

Billy sits up in bed, listens carefully to the sounds of the house. There’s no movement. He’d heard them all go to bed a few hours ago, so he climbs carefully out of bed and goes into the kitchen. 

There’s not much for food. Billy eats two slices of bread, leaning on the counter, but mostly holding his own weight up. That’s half a victory, standing on his own. He feels a little less shaky. The bread is stale, but Billy still eats it. _Fuck._ This stupid, piece of shit house, fuck it. _Fuck._ He slams his hand against the wall without thinking, flinches at the sound, but doesn’t hear any answering noise. Everyone is still asleep, like he isn’t here at all. Billy swallows hard.

He shuffles to the bathroom next, still hungry, but giving up on anything more than bread. A look in the mirror confirms his face is looking better. He tilts his head to the side, squinting a little at his reflection. It’s not great, but it’s definitely not as bad. Maybe he’ll go to school tomorrow. There’s usually something he can eat, there, or someone who he can get food from. 

The bruises aren’t as bad. He could sit on the bench at practice or just not go to basketball at all. He could say it was a fight if someone asks what happened. Billy stares at himself in the mirror and grins, all teeth. It hurts, but he can sell it. He could say it was a fight. He thinks that he could tell that lie without flinching.

Billy prods a bruise on his chin, hisses, prods one on his rib, hisses again. He can at least open both eyes, now, although one is still swollen and black. He’s a mess. Billy feels his eyes water and squeezes them shut, which also hurts. He breathes in and out until his face feels less tight. The house is quiet all around him, everyone else asleep. He feels _disgusting._

Billy peels off his clothes, runs the shower.

The hot water feels good, but not as good as it feels to wash the last three days off his skin. He leans his forehead against the cool tiles and takes several long, slow breaths. If he keeps his breathing calm then the rest of him stays calm, too. If he stays calm, then he stays quiet, doesn’t make noise, doesn’t draw attention.

When the mirror is fogged over and the bathroom’s filled with steam, Billy wraps a towel around his waist, slips out of the bathroom and starts back down the hall toward his room. He’s exhausted again and still hungry. He just wants to sleep. He just wants to fucking be in bed.

He doesn’t see Max until she drops the cup she’s holding. The sound makes him jump. He swallows down the small, terrified noise he almost made. Hates himself. “Billy,” she says, and she’s staring at his face, his chest. “Holy fuck.” She’s gaping at him, at the bruises, at the stupid mess he is.

“Go back to bed, Maxine,” Billy says, too tired for this conversation, for her nosey questions and horrified stare. When he brushes past her she’s cleaning up the broken pieces of cup on the floor. He thinks her hands are shaking. His dad would kill him if he’d broken one of Susan’s precious cups, probably. He won’t care that it was Max. An old, bitter jealousy burns deep in his stomach, followed by the different heat of shame crawling up his spine.

Back in his room, a door between himself and the rest of the house, Billy dries off, tries to dry his hair enough so that it won’t look terrible when he wakes up in the morning. Just in case he goes to school. He pulls on an old pair of sweatpants and--at the last second--Harrington’s red sweater. He pulls the sleeves down over his knuckles and then he gets back into bed, curls up into himself as best he can. It hurts, but it’s worth it to make himself small. Maybe tomorrow he’ll go to school, but maybe he won’t. He wonders how long he can get away with it.

He’s nearly asleep when he hears it: _Ping, ping, ping._

Billy opens his eyes. _Ping, ping._

_Ping_. 

It’s coming from the window. Slowly, still aching, Billy climbs out of bed and looks outside. There’s someone standing a few feet back from his window. It’s--oh _fuck him_. It’s fucking Harrington.

Billy opens the window, looks over his shoulder, strains to hear if there’s anything else going on in the house. He hears nothing except the silence of a house at night time. Billy looks back out the window. “What the fuck?” he whispers.

Harrington grins at him. Billy can see the white flash of his teeth. “You haven’t been in school,” he says, mimicking himself from that day on the court, but the humor in his voice sounds a little forced. Billy aches for Harrington, so suddenly and immediately that he has to grip the window for balance. He wants--fuck, that’s the end of the sentence, isn’t it? He _wants_. 

“What’s it to you if I miss a little school, Harrington?” Billy asks. He tries to keep his voice low.

The last time they’d had this conversation, Harrington had said _I don’t know_ and stared at his shoes. This time he says, “I was fucking worried, Billy,” and holds Billy’s gaze. He’s moving closer. “I’m coming up.”

“What? No. You can’t. Harrington--” but then Harrington’s got a grip on the window and is hauling himself into Billy’s room. Billy hears the thump his feet make when they hit the floor, hears Harrington’s quick breathing, hears--thankfully, Jesus--silence in the house around him.

“I’m like a ninja,” Harrington whispers, but it doesn’t do much to loosen the cold spread of fear from the center of Billy’s chest out. 

The thing in his chest is dead now. No blooming warmth, no flowers. Billy’s chest is a tundra. How nice of his dad to remind him.

When Billy doesn’t answer, Harrington tilts his head to the side. He’s squinting in the darkness, Billy can see it, Harrington’s thinking face. “Is that my sweater?”

Billy wonders if they’re going to repeat all their old conversations tonight. Billy wonders if his dad is going to catch them. Billy wonders if Harrington’s saying all these stupid things on purpose. Billy says, “Yeah it is, don’t cream your pants,” just because he thinks it might make Harrington laugh and he wants to hear him laugh so badly.

It does make him laugh, but Harrington’s quiet about it, like he knows he can’t make too much noise. Billy’s--grateful, for that, to see him, that someone was--that someone noticed.

“Where have you been?” Harrington asks. “I waited on Sunday. It’s been like, four days, Billy.” Billy’s grateful, then, especially for the dark. It hides the worst of his face.

“I was sick,” he lies.

“Bullshit,” Harrington says, and now they really are repeating all those old conversations. _Bullshit_ Harrington had said in the car that night in January, then--as he does now, “Your dad?”

It seems like too much. Talking about this here. In this room. With his father three doors down the hallway. Harrington can’t be here. Fuck. “You can’t be here,” Billy whispers. “You really can’t. I’m dead if he finds you in here.” Billy says that, means it, still doesn’t want Harrington to leave.

Harrington moves slowly. Lifts his hand halfway toward Billy, pauses for a heartbeat, moves it a little bit closer. A signal. A warning. Billy feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest, like his dad and Max and Susan must all be able to hear it while he waits for Harrington to touch him, _please, fuck_ he just, he needs Harrington to _touch him_. 

Harrington’s hand lands on his shoulder. He brushes his thumb across Billy’s throat, over his pulse. Billy can’t breathe. Billy is falling apart.

“You can’t be here,” Billy murmurs. _You can’t leave_ , he means. 

“Are you coming to school tomorrow?” Harrington asks. He’s so close now that Billy can feel the heat from his body. Billy feels his own, traitorous body stepping closer, moving into Harrington’s space. He’s drawn in by the slow slide of Harrington’s hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, the warm press of his palm, the way he tangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of Billy’s neck. Billy is drowning, is melting, thinks that the metaphor doesn’t matter as long as the end result is him, a puddle, drawn in with the tide to Harrington’s space, at Harrington’s feet. 

Harrington can’t be here. Billy never wants him to leave.

“Fuck,” Billy says, slumping forward, collapsing into him. He presses his still sore face into Harrington’s shoulder, into the warm crook of Harrington’s neck. Harrington cards his fingers through Billy’s hair. Billy is doing something a little too close to shaking against Harrington’s chest. Harrington’s grip on him is steady. He holds Billy up.

“Are you coming to school tomorrow?” Harrington asks again, and Billy wants to ask him what he’s doing. If he knows what he’s doing. 

There’s a sound in the house. Footsteps. A sink running. Billy’s heart speeds up, he goes rigid. Harrington can’t be here. Billy starts to pull away, but Harrington wraps an arm around his waist, keeps Billy close, held against his chest. Billy shivers, presses even closer, says, “You have to--”

“Are you coming to school tomorrow?” Harrington demands, still holding on.

Billy nods into Harrington’s skin, swallows hard, “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. School tomorrow.” If there were a way for him to get closer to Harrington, Billy thinks desperately, he would do it. 

Harrington lets go enough that Billy has room to straighten. Billy misses him the second he does, stands up straight anyway, starts to pull away. Harrington catches him, though, doesn’t let him go far. He leans down, in close, and then--so fucking _gently_ \--he presses his lips against Billy’s. Harrington kisses him like he _means it_. 

He pulls away after not long enough, presses his forehead against Billy’s, just for a heartbeat. “I’m going to want to kill something when I see your face,” Harrington murmurs. He presses his lips to the corner of Billy’s mouth and Billy thinks that he’s never felt more out of control in his life. 

Harrington’s hands fall to Billy’s hips. He squeezes. “Tell Max I said thanks for the call.”

Then he’s gone, back out the window. Billy’s heart is still beating fast, but the footsteps move past his room again and fade away. Billy doesn’t know if they were his dad or Susan or Max, but it doesn’t matter. Harrington disappears around the block, out of Billy’s sight.

It hits him then, what they were doing, in this room, in this house. Billy shuts the window and sits down slowly on his bed, wraps his arms around himself. This can’t--he can’t--

It doesn’t matter, that’s what Billy tells himself, staring at the window Harrington had climbed through. It doesn’t matter and he doesn’t care.

Harrington kisses Billy like he means it and Billy--

Billy stops the thought there. There’s nothing to mean. There can’t be anything to mean. He doesn’t--he doesn’t care.

This is all fun and games until someone gets hurt. In Billy’s experience, that’s usually him. He’s done. This is fucking done. This was _dangerous_ tonight. Billy exhales, rubs his hands over his arms and rolls over. He tugs the covers over his head and presses his face into his pillow.

All around him, the house is silent. Somewhere in Hawkins, Harrington is driving home.

Billy shuts his eyes. He’ll take the sweater off tomorrow.

Tomorrow. When maybe he’ll need Harrington a little less.

~

“Good morning, son,” his dad says to him, sitting at the breakfast table the next morning.

Billy is afraid of him. It hits him like a freight train as he stops, halfway into the kitchen, his eyes wide. He feels caught and doesn’t know why. He hasn’t seen his dad since Sunday and now it’s Thursday and Billy--Billy is afraid of him. Billy feels hot all over, embarrassed, angry. “Good--” he stops, clears his throat. “Morning, dad.”

His dad is staring at him over the top of his cup of coffee and Billy thinks, _he knows_ , thinks that it doesn’t matter if he does, thinks that maybe his dad can smell it on him, can smell Harrington on him. Billy meets his father’s gaze and any wavering resolve he has dissolves into nothing. It’s over. It never was.

It never could have been.

He swallows hard, walks the rest of the way into the kitchen, pours himself a mug and stands there chugging coffee until Max appears. She hesitates in the doorway, her eyes move from Billy to his dad and back again.

“Good morning,” she says. 

His dad smiles at her. “Good morning, Max,” he says, then, “Billy, say good morning to your sister.”

_Tell Max I said thanks for the call_ , Billy’s brain screams at him. He hates her suddenly. His knuckles go white around the mug of coffee. If she’d kept her nose out of it--Harrington wouldn’t have come here and maybe--fuck. No. He hates Max because he’s scared of his dad and he’s so angry and he’s humiliated, too, and he needs to fucking hate someone. Hating himself isn’t fucking going to cut it. “Good morning,” Billy says to her through his teeth.

Max’s gaze lands on him. She looks confused. “I’m ready to go,” she says after a strange silence settles over the kitchen. She jostles the backpack on her shoulder as if to demonstrate just how fucking ready she is.

Billy dumps the rest of his coffee down the drain. Washes the mug. Grabs his stuff. He walks to the car on autopilot.

“Billy,” Max says once the door is closed. Then, all in a rush, “I know you’re mad. It’s--it’s just--it was so many days and you wouldn’t let me _help_ and it was scary, ok? Your face was--is--I just,” Max pauses, looks so fucking young sitting there next to him with her backpack held against her chest. Her voice is quiet when she says, “I knew you’d let him help you.”

Billy hates her and then he doesn’t. She’s right. He feels numb. In the absence of an ache for Harrington, in the absence of fear of his father, there is nothing to feel at all.

“I get it,” Billy says. “But you can never do it again.”

“What?”

“It’s done,” Billy says, driving away from the house. “It’s fucking over, Max.”

She pauses, her eyes wide on his face. He doesn’t even speed, can’t even muster the energy to put his foot down on the gas. He’ll need it all saved, every drop of energy he can gather, for what comes next. “Does--does he know?” Max asks, and Billy wonders how much about whatever he and Harrington have been doing--feeling--for the last few weeks she’s put together.

“He doesn’t,” Billy says, can hear how empty his voice sounds. “But he will.”

“Oh,” Max whispers. She doesn’t say anything else after that, except a hesitant _Bye, Billy_ when she gets out of his car.

~

If there is one thing, any one thing, that Billy is good at, it’s pretending like everything is fine.

When he parks next to Harrington that morning, he makes it clear he doesn’t want to be touched without saying anything, stays pressed against his own car door, arm curled around himself, smoking. Harrington reads that in an instant, leaves a comfortable distance between the two of them. He smiles at Billy, and Billy ducks his gaze. He lets himself project the kind of vulnerable Harrington’s looking for. He lets Harrington stare at the bruises, sees the anger in his eyes, the twitch of his fingers. This is all normal shit, Harrington’s muttered curses, the aborted gestures to touch Billy that Billy shifts away from. This is all normal. It’s exactly the way they’d be acting if Billy weren’t going to upend everything in a few hours.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t. It’s not like he has a choice.

By the end of the day, Billy’s earned four homeroom detentions, three regular detentions, two Saturday detentions, and a fucking partridge in a pear tree, probably. He’s not going to any of them, so it doesn’t really matter. Everyone is so _disappointed_ because he’s such a _smart kid_. Fuck them. Fuck them all. He doesn’t raise his hand once, doesn’t pick up a pencil. He slams a lot of doors.

People mostly stay out of his way. Billy Hargrove’s back, he can hear them whisper. Look at his _face_.

Good.

He doesn’t exactly avoid Harrington, but he keeps his distance. He can see the concern, how badly Harrington wants to walk over to him and say something. Harrington doesn’t know, yet, that there’s nothing to say. He doesn’t know, yet, that Billy’s chest is a tundra, that the tides have gone out, that Billy cannot allow himself to be a puddle at Harrington’s feet, allow himself to melt at his touch ever again.

Billy walks into basketball practice at Harrington’s side. It’s a thing they do now, have for a few weeks, but Harrington heads to the locker room and Billy drops down on the bench. He pretends that he got in a fight. Coach is happy to make a scene about it, to sit Billy out and say that it’s about being an example and not getting into fights, we’re a team boys, we can’t pull stupid shit like that. He doesn’t say it this time, but Billy hears the word _useless_ rattle around in his skull in time to everyone’s dribbles, the squeak of their sneakers on the court.

Billy is slow to gather his stuff after practice, waits leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, for Harrington to come out. If Billy cared, the way that Harrington looks for him when he walks out of the gym would make him ache, but he doesn’t care, so it doesn’t hurt. Much. The sun is setting and the parking lot glows orange. Billy doesn’t feel outside the rules anymore. He doesn’t feel reckless.

Harrington reaches for him once he’s checked that they’re alone. Billy sidesteps it. Harrington frowns.

Billy takes a drag from his cigarette, doesn’t offer Harrington one. “Here’s how this is gonna go,” Billy says, easy. “You’re going to fuck off.” Billy exhales smoke at the sky. Harrington gapes at him. “Did I fucking stutter?” Billy asks.

“What are you talking about?” Harrington’s eyes are wide like a baby fucking deer.

“I mean,” Billy says, grins and drags his tongue back and forth across his lower lip. “I mean we’re fucking done.” He keeps smiling, big and wide, all teeth, sharp. Mean.

“Billy, what? I thought--” Harrington seems to lose track of his sentence. He steps forward, too fast, no warning, reaches for Billy--

Billy flinches back. “Don’t fucking _touch_ me,” he snarls. “What? You thought this was something? That we were gonna be something?” he laughs, hard and jagged. “In your dreams, pretty boy.”

Harrington’s hand drops back to his side. “What?”

“Christ, Harrington. How the fuck have you made it this far when you’re this fucking dumb?” Billy feels a hole opening inside him, feels himself shredding around it, all these little pieces of him catch in the breeze and then drift away. Debris. Billy thinks of the way a highway looks after a car crash, thinks of the acrid smell of smoke and hot asphalt. “I mean I’m not gonna be part of whatever weird shit you’re into, so fuck off.”

Harrington opens his mouth. Closes it again. Finally says, “I don’t--Billy--”

“It’s done,” Billy says, _I don’t care_ his brain tries to soothe itself, even as Billy feels like he’s being put through a meat grinder. “Get the fuck away from me. _Stay_ the fuck away from me.”

He would storm off then, and he does, it’s just that it takes his brain a second to communicate with his legs, because Billy feels outside himself, feels sharp pangs of hurt burrowing into his gut like flies, feels rotten, like some long-dead _thing._ It takes his legs a minute, so he’s still standing there, still looking into Harrington’s face when Harrington finally gets it. Billy’s still standing there when Harrington’s face finally crumbles.

It breaks his fucking heart.

He walks away. Shoves Harrington out of his path, drops his cigarette on the ground, gets to the Camaro. His fingers shake when he turns the key, so he rolls down and turns his music up as loud as it can go.

He drives too fast, takes every turn too sharp, laughs and doesn’t mean it. His music can’t go up any louder. Nothing is loud enough to drown out the sound of the rushing in his ears, the frantic thump of his heart in his chest.

Billy makes it all the way to the basketball court before he loses it. He cuts the music, slumps forward against the steering wheel. His shoulders shake, but Billy doesn’t make a fucking sound.

It’s a long, long time before he gets himself together enough to scrub the evidence of loss off his aching face. When he picks Max up, she asks him why his eyes are so red, and he’s pissed and hurt and angry, but it isn’t her fucking fault. He tells her he’s high. He drives her home. 

It’s funny, Billy thinks, staring blankly at his dad across the dinner table, he feels like the world has shifted on its axis, but nothing has actually changed. Less than a week ago, Billy remembered what it felt like to be hopeful, but that was more like a dream, or a fucking trick of the light, maybe. Billy looks at his dad and he thinks of California. He looks at his dad and he thinks of his mom. He looks at his dad and he thinks that this is fucking it, thinks that this is all it’s ever gonna be.

“Susan,” Billy says, and his voice doesn’t crack or break or waver. “Pass the green beans.” After a pause he adds, “Please,” because his dad is staring at him.

~

A week passes.

Billy makes little changes to ease the transition back to the way things were before one night in January when Harrington had given him a sweater. He doesn’t return the sweater, but he does start parking someplace different. He walks in with Tommy in the morning, with a pretty girl named Kimberly whose waist he wraps an arm around. He whispers things to her in the hallway that make her giggle, her fingers splayed out across his chest, her nose pressing into his cheek. He knows that Harrington sees it. He wishes he didn’t know that.

Mostly, Billy tries to make these little changes so that he doesn’t have to notice Harrington at all. If he noticed him, Billy would have to think about the way Harrington looks tired, but not in the sad way--although he looks sad, too--but in that angry way, where he looks raw and like energy is crackling under his skin. If he noticed Harrington, Billy would have to worry about the way that Harrington brushes past Wheeler in the hallway, even when she calls after him, so that eventually she’s standing there alone with wide eyes and pursed lips. If he noticed Harrington, Billy would have to think about the way Harrington shrugs off Byers every time he tries to talk to him.

Billy wishes he were better at lying to himself, because he sees all of it. He squeezes Kimberly around the waist and she giggles and squeals. He reminds himself that he doesn’t care.

It isn’t just his high school friends that Harrington’s ignoring, apparently.

On a Friday night, Billy picks Max up from the arcade around 9. He’s late--trying to avoid running into Harrington doing the same. It’s cold, but in that warm way at the end of winter, where it actually feels warm, so he’s got the windows down, smoking, when he pulls up.

If Max or the one she’s talking with--Dustin--hear the Camarao they give no sign of it. Max has one finger in Dustin’s face. Billy can hear the volume of her voice before he can make out what she’s saying.

“No,” Max says, “ _You_ shut the fuck up, Dustin. You don’t know _anything_!”

Dustin crosses his arms, eyebrows drawn together. “I know Steve is upset!” he snaps back, “I know that it’s _all his fault_. The evidence--”

“You don’t get to blame him!” Max shouts, her face nearly as red as her hair. “You don’t _get it_!”

“If you really cared about Steve you would be on his side!” Dustin says, and now he’s red too.

“Billy is my brother,” Max answers, her voice dropping low. “If there’s sides to pick then I’m on his, but you’re not _listening_ , Dustin, because there aren’t sides!”

Lucas starts to come out the door of the arcade, looks between the two of them, grabs the door before it shuts, and yells something inside. A few seconds later, Mike and Will join them. Billy knows all of their names now. Dustin still has his arms crossed, but Max has dropped her finger out of his face. She’s got her skateboard in one hand, and she’s drumming her fingers against it in a hectic rhythm.

“What’s going on?” Mike asks, finally breaking the silence between them. Billy wonders if he should let them know he’s here, listening.

“ _Max_ thinks that whatever Billy did to Steve is just _fine_ because he’s her brother. Steve is one of us!”

“You don’t understand,” Max says again.

Mike has both hands up, placating. Lucas rests a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Ok,” Mike says, “What don’t we understand?”

“I can’t tell you!”

“You guys are good now and that’s--fine,” Mike says, “But we all watched what he did to Steve before and now he did it again--”

“But like, an _emotional_ version,” Dustin adds, still sounding pissed. “That’s way worse.”

Billy watches Max push her hair out of her face. “There’s some things you guys just don’t understand, ok?” she asks, sounding urgent, frustrated.

“Then tell us,” Lucas says, reaching out and resting a hand on Max’s arm. “Tell us what we don’t understand.”

“I _can’t_!” Max shouts it. Billy knows from the expressions on their faces that he isn’t the only one shocked when her voice cracks. Max shoves Lucas’s hand off her. “You don’t get it,” she says. “Steve gets it.”

“If Steve got it he wouldn’t be so upset! Billy is the _worst_ person!” Dustin again, but not shouting. They all seem afraid to shout at nearly crying Max. It’s almost sweet. 

“Eleven knows,” Max says. She’s looking desperately at Mike. His face does something weird at this sentence. Billy doesn’t know what an Eleven is until Max turns to the smallest one, Will, says, “El knows. Ask her. I can’t tell you. He wouldn’t want me to tell you.”

El. Hopper’s daughter. Billy wonders what it is that she knows. He wonders if it’s what he thinks it is. How many people in this shitty little town know about his dad? Billy closes his eyes for a second. It doesn’t matter.

He thinks of Hopper’s daughter, of Hopper guiding her back into the house, of the frank way she’d spoken to him. Unafraid of his response. Billy can’t remember the last time he spoke to his dad without mapping out the consequences. He must have been really fucking young.

Another car pulls up. It’s the BMW. Billy turns his head and looks at Harrington through his windows. Harrington’s gaze meets his. Billy swallows hard, doesn’t look away from Harrington big, dark eyes. He looks so tired, Billy thinks. He looks so angry. Billy looks until he can’t look anymore, until he cuts his gaze away, back toward the kids.

Lucas is hugging Max, and Max allows it for half a second before she’s pulling away and wiping her eyes. “I don’t think there are sides,” Max says to them all. “But if there are--I’m--I’m on his.”

Billy doesn’t know what to do with himself, all of the sudden. He hits his head back against the headrest, revs the engine, honks. “Let’s fucking _go_ , Maxine,” he yells, lets all his anger and confusion flood into his voice.

Every single one of them jumps except her. “Great choice,” Dustin says, all sarcasm. “Let’s go. Steve’s here.”

Max turns around and walks toward him, climbs into the car and slams the door. She tosses her skateboard in the back and stares at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asks.

He thinks of her impassioned defense of him to her friends. He thinks he doesn’t fucking deserve it.

“None of your goddamn business,” he says, throws the Camaro into reverse, drives away. He has to drive past Harrington to leave. Billy slouches down in his seat and pretends he doesn’t notice. 

~

Another week passes.

It’s the first week of April, and coach will not shut up about setting a good example and setting up the next group of Hawkins’s finest varsity players. He’s got them in practice every day, running play after play after play, using the older boys as an example for the younger players coming up. Billy’s getting tired of it, but basketball gives him a reason to keep moving, and Harrington’s there, so Billy cannot stand to hold still.

Billy plays some of his best basketball that week. If he were in the business of feeling, he might even feel proud of himself.

On Friday, a week after the arcade, Billy’s pretty sure they’ve run every single fucking play in existence. They’re apparently going to run them all again. He walks into the locker room already pissed about it. He wants a thrill, a rush, a real fucking game. He craves the adrenaline rush of of a real win, but they just keep running plays. It’s the same shit every day. Fuck. The JV kids are coming to watch. Again. Billy’s tired of feeling like he’s on display. He wishes he’d gotten detention.

It doesn’t help that Harrington’s not looking any better. It’s distracting Billy from his goal of never noticing or thinking about Harrington ever. Billy’d watched him slam his locker hard enough that it swung back open twice this week. Harrington’s looking more tired every day and the energy that crackles under his skin is so thick that Billy can almost taste it.

In the locker room, Billy and Harrington change with their backs to each other, like they haven’t dragged hands and mouths over all that skin.

“Billy, are you even fucking listening to me?” Tommy’s whining from somewhere to his left. 

“No,” he says honestly, doesn’t even look up.

“You’re an asshole,” Tommy says, which is unusual, because mostly he fawns over Billy. “Whatever, though,” he adds, like he realizes he should take his fucking foot out of his mouth and remember who he’s talking to. When Billy looks up at that, they’re alone. Harrington’s so fucking sneaky. Billy didn’t even notice him leave. Tommy grins at him, “At least you dropped Steve. That was so strange, man. What a fucking freak. He hangs out with all those little kids. It’s creepy.”

Billy sees red, for a second. He can’t be mad at his dad. He isn’t mad at Max. None of this is Harrington’s fault, but Tommy? Tommy’s different.

Billy finishes lacing up his sneakers and puts a hand to Tommy’s chest, slams him against the lockers. “You,” Billy says, low and quiet, “Are a stupid piece of shit I keep around in case I get bored. Don’t get confused about your value.” He pats Tommy once on the cheek. “And keep Harrington’s name out of your fucking mouth.”

Billy’s almost all the way out of the locker room when he hears Tommy mutter, “Well fuck you too, asshole.” He ignores it. He’s magnanimous like that.

~

An hour and a half later, Billy is sweaty and stressed and shirtless and pretty sure that this stupid fucking practice is never going to end.

Billy’s nailing every shot to whoops and cheers from the younger boys, but he keeps getting pit against Harrington, close enough to smell him, to hear him breathing. It nauseating and intoxicating all at once. Billy can’t decide if he should be holding his breath or trying to get closer.

It’s been ninety long minutes. Billy feels raw about their proximity in all the worst ways. “One more play, boys!” the coach calls, and Billy thinks, _finally_ , then the coach adds, “and then we’ll show them how a few drills are done,” and Billy wonders what coach’ll do if he just lies down on the floor and refuses to get up.

He gets into position anyway. 

The whistle blows, the play gets called, and then Billy lets instinct kick in. He loves basketball, loves the rush and the way it feels. He’s running, feels the energy in him like a living, breathing, soothing thing, hears the dribble of the ball, lets it guide him.

When Billy plays basketball, he likes a rough game. When he knows it’s coming, he takes every foul and every hit like he’s asking for it. As long as he expects it, knows it’s coming.

He and Tommy are at the net, Billy can taste a win, adrenaline like copper on his tongue, and they go up for a rebound at the same time--

Tommy’s elbow smashes into Billy’s cheekbone, his nose. Pain explodes across Billy’s face.

_He hadn’t know it was coming_.

Pain explodes across Billy’s face, but worse than that is the panic that spikes through his brain and chest. He feels himself falling, lands hard on all fours. Billy can hear the basketball bounce uselessly away, can hear the silence like all the noise has been sucked out of the gym as he lands, everyone staring. He can hear the sugary whine in Tommy’s voice as he half laughs, “C’mon man, get up. It was an accident! Shit.”

Billy hears his own breathing, frantic, unsteady, his chest heaving. He’s sucking it in, but not getting any air. His face throbs.

Billy knows he’s shaking, knows he needs to get up, knows the whole gym is watching him, but he hadn’t known it was coming and this is more than a flinch, this is pain exploding across his face, this is getting hit with no warning, this is--he can’t--

Billy ducks his head, squeezes his eyes shut, tries to get himself centered. This isn’t--it isn’t _that_. This is basketball, a nasty fucking hit, but it’s just basketball. He tries to count backwards from ten, loses the thread, has to restart, has to restart, has to--

He can’t fucking _breathe_.

The sound of the whistle blowing makes Billy jump, flinch, he’s embarrassed, but it helps, the scare. He pushes himself back so he’s on his knees and the whistle blows again. He’s getting his breathing under control. Billy’s nose is bleeding, he wipes at it and draws in a desperate, shaky gulp of air.

The whistle blows again, again, again. Coach yells. It takes Billy a second to figure out why. He has to look around to find it.

Harrington has Tommy against the wall of the gym, one arm slung across his chest to pin him there, the other raised in a fist. 

Billy stares.

“I told you, it was an accident, Steve, get the fuck off me,” Tommy is saying, face flushed.

“It wasn’t an accident,” Harrington says, and the sound carries because the gym is so fucking silent except for coach making his way across it, telling them to get off each other. Billy’s still on the floor. “It wasn’t a fucking accident, was it, Tommy?” Harrington’s voice is low and hard, jagged. Billy’s never heard him sound this angry.

Billy remembers Tommy at that party, talking big about what he’d do to Harrington, running his fucking mouth. The look on Harrington’s face right now, though. Fuck. Billy isn’t sure _he’d_ want to fight back against that.

Every ounce of raw, angry energy Billy’s ever sensed in him is on display, more even than that night at the Byers’s. Every single tiny piece of fire in his bones is alight on Harrington’s face. Tommy looks fucking terrified.

“No,” Tommy says finally, when Harrington draws his fist back a little farther. “It was on purpose. I hit him on purpose.”

Billy’s nose is still bleeding, residual panic skittering across his shoulders. Coach blows the whistle again. Harrington lets go of Tommy.

Coach, looking between the three of them, doesn’t seem to know what to do with his face. Billy’s expecting a lecture, for him to snap. Instead he says: “Tommy, start running. You did that on purpose? Jesus.” Then he looks at Harrington, “Harrington, get the fuck off my court. I’ll deal with you tomorrow,” then he looks at Billy. It’s here that coach seems most lost. For a long, silent moment, he just looks at Billy, something Billy doesn’t really understand on his face.

Billy realizes he’s still on the floor, his chest heaving, his nose bleeding. That creeping feeling of panic from the pain of Tommy’s unexpected elbow in his face still hasn’t really gone away. “Billy,” the coach starts, then stops. “Go get yourself cleaned up, son. You’re bleeding on my court again.”

Slowly, Billy stands.

Harrington is watching him. “I thought I told you to get off my court,” the coach says, looking at Harrington, but Harrington doesn’t move until Billy does. Harrington walks just behind Billy, puts himself between Billy and the rest of the gym, and Billy’s feeling pretty fucking known and vulnerable, and it doesn’t make it better, but it makes it a little easier to know Harrington has his back.

Billy walks into the locker room, pretends that every single JV player hasn’t just seen him have a meltdown over a thrown elbow, pretends that he’s all right, but doesn’t have the energy to pretend that he isn’t so aware of Harrington right behind him, doesn’t have the energy to pretend that Harrington thinks he’s all right.

Billy cleans his nose and throws on a t-shirt.

“What the fuck was that?” he asks, the first words he has spoken to Harrington in two weeks.

When he turns around, though, Harrington is gone. Billy hadn’t heard him leave.

~

“Jesus, Billy,” Max says when she sees him.

“Do you want pizza bread?” Billy asks. His dad and Susan are out. He hasn’t cooked for Max in weeks.

“I always want pizza bread,” she answers. “Peppers. No broccoli.”

After they eat, Max falls asleep on the couch while they’re watching tv. She slumps over, her head not quite resting against Billy’s shoulder, but it’s a pretty near thing. Billy tosses a blanket across her and turns the volume down, puts his feet up on the table and thinks that for all the shit he’s felt, for all the shit he’s gained and lost in the last few fucking weeks, at least he gets to keep this.

Max snores. It’s hilarious.

He wakes her up before his dad and Susan get home and then cleans the kitchen once she’s gone to bed. Billy lingers at the sink, staring at his reflection in the window. His face is bruised again. If he shuts his eyes, he can still feel the rush of panic and fear that came with Tommy’s elbow slamming into him.

When he opens his eyes, though, Billy can see the twisted anger on Harrington’s face, the way he’d demanded Tommy admit the elbow wasn’t an accident. The way Harrington hadn’t moved to leave the court until he was sure Billy was ready to move, too. Billy’s still staring at his reflection in the window when he hears his dad and Susan pull up to the house.

Billy cares, he finally admits, looking at his reflection and thinking of how easily Harrington had put Tommy against the wall because--because Tommy had fucked with Billy. Billy cares so fucking much.

His stomach hurts with the knowledge. He slips into his bedroom before his dad and Susan can try and talk to him. He pulls on Harrington’s sweater before he gets into bed. He cares so much, and admitting that he does is the feeling of waves slamming against rocks. It takes his breath away, drags him under.


	5. V

Before the apology, but after the thing with the bat, Billy and Harrington had accidentally had a conversation.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Harrington had said, crouched close to the team. “We’re gonna run an isolation play.” Around them, there had been so much sound. Billy could not believe how fucking much Hawkins, Indiana loved their basketball team. 

The crowd was screaming, students, parents--even his dad and Max were there. Max was sitting with Susan and not her friends, which Billy noticed, even if he was only just starting to care about shit like that.

Harrington continued: “If we can get Hargrove some space, he’s gonna make that shot.”

Billy hadn’t needed to look at the scoreboard to know this was make or fucking break, but he did anyway. The pressure made him jittery. He thought of his dad in the crowd, serious, stern. He liked to watch Billy play basketball, which Billy had never really understood. In California he’d been really good at it. He’d been wondering, that night, if his luck would hold in Hawkins. He’d been thinking probably it wouldn’t. “I don’t fucking know, Harrington,” he’d hissed into their huddle.

Everyone at the team had turned to look at Billy with wide eyes. Since Harrington had shown up with bruises after that night at the Byers’s house, Billy hadn’t said so much as a single word directly to his face. Only Harrington seemed unbothered by the sudden breaking of the silence between them. He’d looked at Billy with big brown eyes, a hint of energy crackling under his skin. He’d had sweat at his temple, but no bruising, that was long since faded. Billy, always bruised somewhere, had been fascinated by how fucking nice Harrington’s face was. 

Harrington had met Billy’s eyes across the huddle, “I just told you what we’re doing, Hargrove,” he’d said. “That’s the play. That’s the game. That’s how we win.”

Billy had shaken his head. “If I don’t make the fucking shot--”

“You’re going to make the shot,” Harrington cut him off. Everyone else, in that second, had faded away. It was just him and Harrington in that huddle, no cheering crowd, no dad, no teammates. “We’re going to get you alone,” Harrington says, “Real simple. You’re going to do your thing, and then we’re going to win this game.”

“Harrington--”

“Billy,” Harrington had said. “You’ve got this. I trust you.”

In that second, in the quiet, controlled confidence of Harrington’s voice, Billy had heard an echo of King Steve. Not just the pretty boy at the parties, but the one who called the shots during the game. Billy had nodded, once. “All right,” he’d said.

Back on the court, Billy had heard the crowd, the screams, his own breathing. He’d heard the squeak of shoes on the court. He’d heard Harrington call the play. His voice had rattled somewhere in Billy’s fingertips when they found the ball. Again, everything else had fallen away. Time had slowed around him and Billy had known exactly what to do. Step, step, step. His feet, his dribbling, both moving in familiar, constant rhythms. He knew--relished--the silence when the ball had left his fingers. _Swish_.

He’d made the shot. Of course he’d fucking made the shot.

Hawkins had won. Billy remembers a lot about that night: the crowd absolutely losing their shit, Max clapping on the side and then looking horrified at herself, his dad, after the game saying _Nice shot, son_ in a way that made Billy wish for something that would never fucking exist between them, Susan’s quiet excitement.

He mostly remembers, though, being swarmed and cheered. Hands slapping his shoulders and ass, whatever they could reach, his teammates laughing. He mostly remembers the chaos, and then looking up, and meeting Harrington’s gaze across the crowd, his wide, stupid smile, his calm eyes. Harrington had grinned at him and Billy had thought, _motherfucker_. Had probably known, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it, where the whole thing was going. _I trust you_ , Harrington had said, and Billy had known what the highway looks like after a car crash, had known about the splat at the end of a long fall. 

Had jumped anyway.

He had gotten into Harrington’s car that night, no gun to his head. If he’s honest about it, he’d really just fucking wanted to.

His fault. He’s so fucking stupid. And now he’s gone and admitted that he cares.

The thing about nearly drowning--and it’s happened to him a few times because Billy might not have always been this angry, but he’s always been reckless--is that in all the tumult of the water tossing him around, there’d always been this moment of calm acceptance. Like, this is it. Here it is. It’s fine.

This feels a little bit like that, rolling over in bed and looking at the window in his room and thinking about how much he might like Harrington to climb back through it.

Once he’s told himself that truth, it’s like he can’t fucking ignore it. Billy lies in bed that Friday night, stares at the ceiling, and wonders what it means that Harrington had put Tommy against the wall _for Billy_ only hours ago. Harrington seems a little cracked, but except for that one, desperate night at the Byers’s, Billy’s never really seen him be violent like that.

But Billy can see the look on his face, can remember what it’d felt like when Harrington had followed him out of the gym after practice, a barrier, however flimsy, against the rest of the world. Billy’s never thought he wanted a barrier, never thought he’d needed one, but something about Harrington makes him honest. If he’s honest, he’d known weeks ago that he might need Harrington.

Billy rolls over onto his side and checks the clock. He’s been awake for hours. It’s going on well past three in the morning. He kicks his blankets off. Pulls them back on. Sits up and chugs a glass of water. Nothing works. He feels restless way deep down in his bones, like he needs something, but he isn’t sure what.

That’s a lie. He knows exactly what he fucking needs. Fuck.

Billy climbs out of bed and pulls on a pair of jeans. He tugs on his boots. He pulls on a t-shirt and over that Harrington’s sweater. He turns the light on in his room and stares at himself in the mirror. His hair is a disaster, but it’s not like people would be looking at his hair, not with the week old, black and blue and yellowing bruises on his face, not with the new one, courtesy of Tommy, blooming dark just under his eye.

He looks like he’s been in a car crash, actually. The realization makes him laugh even though it isn’t funny.

See, in California, Billy had fallen in love with another boy. His dad had found out. They’d been on the beach, the two of them, waves crashing. They’d been on a blanket Billy’d stolen from Susan’s linen closet. Billy remembers pressing his lips against skin that tasted like salt and was hot from the sun. His dad and Susan were supposed to be away. He’d left Max alone, thought she was old enough to keep her mouth shut, thought he could get away with sneaking out.

Nothing had happened on that beach except the looming shadow of his dad over them, the quiet command that Billy go up to the house. Billy had waited in his room, the door closed, staring at the wall. He’d known that something was coming, but it had been nearly twenty three hours before his dad had shoved open the bedroom door. He’d sent Max and Susan away, to get supplies for the move.

Quieter, that way. Less people around to listen.

Looking in the mirror, Billy remembers _Dad--it wasn’t--I wasn’t--_ and his dad’s voice, hard, _Max told me you’d gone down to the beach. I never expected any son of mine would--_. 

Billy remembers yelling at his dad, that it wasn’t fair, that he was old enough to make his own decisions. He remembers the first hit, a backhand that made his ears ring and Billy stumble. He doesn’t remember much else. The taste of salt on skin still hot from the sun. The feeling of a smile pressed against his throat. He thinks Susan might have driven him to the hospital. He remembers cold, stale lights. He doesn’t remember if Max was around at all. There were bandages, and concerns about internal bleeding, and questions and questions and questions.

Then there was the move: all of Billy’s shit thrown into three boxes in the back of the Camaro, California disappearing in the rearview mirror.

Billy had thought that he’d have a fucking handle on that part of himself in Hawkins, even if he had to be mean, even if he had to be _angry_. But then Steve Harrington had gone and fucked it all up for him, had been kind, had pulled over on the side of the road on a rainy day in January, and before that had said _I trust you_. Had called him _Billy_.

Billy shuts the light off in his room and wonders if everyone feels this certain when they’re walking on a tightrope, knowing they probably won’t make it to the other side. Certain not that they’re gonna make it, but that they’re fucking going to _enjoy_ the fall.

Billy thinks about the way the highway looks after a car crash.

He knocks on Max’s door.

It’s a long few seconds, him huddled near the wood, praying his dad doesn’t hear him, hoping no one else is awake, before the door gets pulled open and a sleepy Max is blinking at him. Her hair is an absolute mess. Billy thinks they might be in a place where he can make fun of her for it later.

“Billy?” she says, but she’s quick on her feet. She’s not stupid. She steps back from the door and tugs Billy into the room by his sleeve. She shuts it, quick and quiet, and then turns on the light.

“Does Harrington have a walkie talkie?” he asks her.

“What?” Max says, then, “Yeah. Dustin got him one for Christmas.”

Billy doesn’t know how to ask his next question out loud. He opens his mouth and looks at her and she says, “Is that Steve’s sweater?” and he just nods. He just nods and Max doesn’t make him say anything else. She walks across the room and grabs her walkie talkie out from underneath her bed, puts it to her mouth. “Steve?” Max says. “Steve wake up.”

There’s a long, silent crackle of nothing. Max tries again, “Steve?” and she’s looking at Billy. He can’t really read the expression on her face. 

Then: “Oh my _fucking_ god, Steve, you never sleep. Wake the fuck up so _I_ can go back to sleep.” Dustin. Billy down looks at his shoes.

There’s another crackling silence. Max opens her mouth, says, “Steve, wake up,” and then Harrington’s voice comes over the radio, sleepy and slow. “Why are none of you shitheads asleep?” he asks. Then, more alert, Billy can hear actual concern: “Is everything ok?”

Max looks at Billy and Billy looks back at her. He feels a little helpless. She rolls her eyes. “Billy needs to talk to you,” she says.

“Is he all right?” Harrington asks.

“Why do we care?” That’s Dustin again.

“Max,” Harrington says, voice sharp, “Is Billy all right?”

Max looks at Billy and then holds the walkie down at her side. “Are you all right?” she asks.

Billy isn’t fucking sure. He drums his fingers on his thighs and tries to figure it out. After a second, he holds his hand out and Max passes the walkie talkie to him, points to the button he needs to press. “Meet me at that place,” Billy says.

There’s a silence at the other end of the walkie that makes Billy want to crawl under his bed and stay there forever. The connection crackles. 

“All right,” Harrington says. “Twenty-five minutes.”

“Steve!” that’s Dustin, all horrified indignation. Billy ignores him.

Billy nods, realizes Harrington can’t see him, says, “Ok,” and hands the radio back to Max. Dustin says something, but Billy isn’t listening to whatever it is. He doesn’t really catch Max’s reply, either, just the annoyed expression on her face when she talks.

She cuts a glance at him, looks like she wants to say something. “Uh,” she says, eloquently.

“Thanks, Maxine,” Billy answers.

He must have walked out of her room and shut her door behind him. He must have grabbed his keys and snuck out the front of the house, locking the door behind him. He must have turned on his car and driven through a sleeping, silent Hawkins, but he doesn’t really remember doing any of it. From the second Harrington said _twenty-five minutes_ , Billy’s had trouble registering any of the little fucking details.

When he pulls up, Harrington’s already there. The court is dark, which makes sense, Billy guesses. Abandoned parks are probably not the best fucking meeting place for going on four in the morning, but Billy can’t fucking think in Hawkins, in his house, with the presence of his dad and all the rest of the bullshit. He can think out here. Looking at Harrington, who’s left his headlights on to break the darkness, Billy feels the most clarity he’s felt in two weeks, since he stood in the kitchen and his dad had stared at him over a cup of coffee and he thought he’d been making the right choice, the only choice.

Billy thinks of waves crashing against the shore, of the ocean pulling him under, thinks that when the tide goes out it comes back in, pulls up next to Harrington and gets out of his car. He leaves his headlights on, too.

Harrington is leaning against the BMW, kind of hunched, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He looks on edge. Even in the glaring, false bright of their headlights, Billy can see how tired he is, can see that energy crackling below the surface. Mostly, though, Billy can see that Harrington looks pretty fucking defeated, can see that he looks a little scared.

“Dustin thinks you’re going to murder me,” Harrington says. He’s not really looking at Billy, more in his general direction. Billy wonders if Harrington’s afraid of _him_ and feels like he’s been punched in the throat.

“I’m not,” Billy answers and his voice is hoarse and soft all at once. If Harrington looks scared, Billy sounds it.

“He says that’s what a murderer would say.”

Billy doesn’t understand why they’re talking about Dustin. 

Harrington sighs, heavy, lifts a hand to card it through his hair. Billy’s staring at him, can’t stop himself. “What do you want, Hargrove?” Harrington asks him, and Billy hears _Hargrove_ like a death sentence. “Y’know, man, I don’t really the dark. So let’s get this fucking over with.” Harrington’s voice is so hard it could cut glass, Billy thinks. “You’re gonna hit me back, right? A little revenge for Tommy? Going to tell me you already said to _stay away_?” 

Harrington’s arms are crossed back in front of his chest. “You want to tell me, what, that this is bullshit? That’s all it was, right? Bullshit? Like you don’t want the same fucking things?” he laughs, but it’s hollow. He crosses his arms and uncrosses them, runs a hand through his hair, tries to slouch back against the car. Nothing Harrington’s doing makes him look less afraid, more in control. His movements are jerky, his shoulders are hunched. He still won’t fucking look at Billy. “I don’t regret it. If that’s what you’re looking for. Tommy had it coming, Billy, you should have seen yourself--he just--you were--” Harrington stops, swallows hard, slams his fist against the door of his car and takes a slow breath.

Billy’s never really had the crackling energy of that anger directed at him before, not since that night when Billy’d broken Harrington’s face. Back then it had seemed like fire, like fury, like a challenge Billy accepted on instinct. Tonight it sounds defensive, resigned.

Harrington swallows again. Then he keeps going. “It doesn’t matter, I guess. So let’s get it over with. You call me a faggot or whatever and then you hit me in the face and then we both go home. Maybe you hit me in the mouth and then on Monday I’ll have a nice fucking bruise and a split fucking lip and you’ll be on good terms with Tommy, again, right? So get it over with. Whatever you fucking came out here to do. Just get it done because I want to go home.” 

There’s a bitterness in Harrington’s voice that’s almost tangible, and Billy thinks that he did that. Billy did that to Harrington. This time it isn’t the fault of whatever shit Harrington’s been through. Billy put the bags under Harrington’s eyes and revved up that energy and made Harrington feel fucking small and cast aside. Not three weeks ago, Billy had been the reason Harrington was sleeping at night. Now he’s dragged him out to the middle of fucking nowhere, to some desolate, abandoned place. There are middle schoolers who think that Billy is going to murder Harrington. 

Harrington might not be thinking murder, but Billy can tell from the hunch in his shoulders, the way he won’t make eye contact, that Harrington thinks Billy came out here to fuck him up. 

He’d come anyway. That’s the worst fucking part.

Out here, on this court, there is silence. This is a place outside time, that’s what Billy thinks. It’s why he comes here when everything else is too loud. It’s why he comes here to be alone. It isn’t a place he’d ever wanted to share, because Billy has almost nothing that is just his, but again and again and again he finds Harrington out here, finds himself glad they’re out here together.

Billy thinks all that and stares at him and doesn’t say anything at all.

“God _dammit_ , Billy!” Harrington yells. “Just get it _over with_!” His voice cracks on the last word, and now Harrington is looking at him and Billy wishes that he weren’t. He doesn’t want to see that much hurt on Harrington’s face. He’s never fucking wanted that.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says, so suddenly that he almost chokes on the words.

Harrington’s arms drop to his sides. “What,” he says, voice blank.

“You’re right,” Billy says. He feels so tired. His chest aches and his face aches and he thinks it’s probably not just from the fucking bruises. What is he doing out here? Billy doesn’t fucking know what he’s doing. But then, that’s not right. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s jumping. _Splat_.

He says, “I do want the same fucking things. And I’m sorry.”

Billy remembers the taste of salt on someone else’s skin, the sound of waves crashing against the shore, the sun hot across his shoulder blades. He remembers thinking that he was going to get burned, thinking that it didn’t matter because he was young and stupid and in love and everyone in California got burned when they were young and stupid.

Looking at Harrington now, in the headlights of their cars, Billy’s thinking that he’s still young and stupid. He’s still gonna get burned. He’s still fucking in love. Only there’s no salt water, no waves crashing against the shore, just him, washing back up against Harrington’s feet, drawn in again and again and again.

“Is Tommy in the back of your car?” Harrington asks, bitter, voice low. Billy sees his jaw set as Harrington turns his head away. “I can’t do this,” Harrington says. “If it’s a fucking joke, just tell me. I can’t do this. Is this a joke?”

Billy wonders what he’d done that Harrington can’t just fucking trust him, then he remembers. Jesus. He’s so fucking stupid, just--just for different reasons than he’d thought he was, before. 

“When we left California,” Billy says, because if he just says _no Tommy’s not here, this isn’t a joke_ he wouldn’t blame Harrington for not believing him, so he doesn’t answer the question, directly. He tells Harrington a story he’d tell to no one else. “When we left--I had just been discharged from the hospital.”

Harrington’s head snaps toward him and his eyes land on Billy, a heavy fucking weight. Billy swallows hard. “My dad--” Billy pauses. “He’s never fucking liked me, right? But he caught me--he caught me--” Billy can’t say it, can’t put salt on sun warmed skin out there in this air between them, not even in this desolate place. If it lives in his head that’s one thing, but he’s too fucking chicken shit to say it out loud. It hurts too fucking much.

Harrington’s staring at him. Billy closes his eyes, can’t handle the sight. “Anyway,” he says, embarrassed by the thickness in his voice, the waver. “It wasn’t pretty, after he caught us. And then you’re in Hawkins, picking me up in the rain, coming to my house, _touching_ me--” something is pulling taut in Billy’s stomach, something in Billy is so brittle that he’s going to shatter right fucking now, “And I--,” his eyes are still closed. He thinks that he will never be able to open them again. “I fucking _want_ , Harrington, and I can’t--I can’t--”

Billy stops, drags in a shaking breath, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

Harrington clears his throat. “Ok,” Harrington says, and Billy waits for him to say _I’m leaving_ , but instead he says, “I just want to warn you--that--that I’m going to touch you.” 

Billy exhales slowly, doesn’t flinch when Harrington’s fingers close around his wrists and pull his hands away from his eyes. Billy blinks and Harrington is close enough that even in this shitty lighting he can see every single eyelash. “Say it again,” Harrington says, soft.

“I don’t--”

“That you want the same things.”

Billy swallows hard and nods his head. “I want the same things,” he says, more whisper than statement. Harrington’s holding both of Billy’s hands.

Harrington leans in, close enough now that Billy can feel breath on his face. Every inch of Billy’s skin is on fire except where Harrington’s touching him. Billy’s burning, crumbling. Harrington presses their lips together and Billy thinks it should feel like combustion, but instead it feels like the slow pull of the tide. Billy is helpless against it. 

Billy is on fire, but here Harrington is, putting it out.

Billy gasps into that first press of Harrington’s mouth to his, lips parting, and Harrington lets go of Billy’s hands to put one to his hip, the other to his cheek. He’s careful of the bruising, careful of all the places Billy still aches when he presses Billy up against the Camaro and slides his tongue past the part in Billy’s lips to drag it over Billy’s own.

Harrington still kisses him slowly, the soft slide of their mouths is measured, patient. Billy feels like he’s falling, but he’s not thinking about the splat, he’s thinking about the way it feels when Harrington pulls back, bites down on Billy’s lower lip, soothes over it with his tongue.

Billy is breathing hard when Harrington breaks the kiss. Billy’s hands are at Harrington’s hips and he wonders how they got there. He pushes Harrington’s shirt up to rub his thumbs against bare skin.

He’s said he was sorry and that kiss felt like forgiveness, but there’s more to this than just coming together. Billy wants to stay here forever, but he can’t. That’s not how shit works.

“This doesn’t fix everything with my life,” Billy says. “You need to know that.”

Harrington interrupts him with another kiss and Billy loses the plot a little. Loses the thread when Harrington tilts his head and licks into Billy’s mouth like he belongs there, like he’s trying to eliminate any inch between them. When Harrington pulls away again Billy doesn’t let him go far, 

“People can’t fucking know,” he says, kisses Harrington’s bottom lip. “If my dad finds out--” Billy stops, turns his head away in one jerky movement, can’t look at Harrington, can’t finish the sentence or the thought. Harrington’s lips are on his jaw, then lower, kissing over Billy’s throat.

“He won’t find out.” Harrington sounds so fucking sure. Billy wishes he were as brave as all these people in his life seem to be. Billy still can’t look at him. Harrington grips Billy’s jaw, turns his face back toward him. “Listen to me,” Harrington says, “He won’t find out. Nothing is going to happen, all right?” 

Billy wants to believe him. He thinks about what it _feels_ like during a car crash. He wants to believe him anyway.

“Besides,” Harrington adds, brushing his lips against Billy’s. “It’s April.”

He’s--right. Billy just isn’t sure he understands the relevance. “It is April,” he agrees, a little confused. It must show, because a smile spreads out over Harrington’s face. 

“There’s only a few months left in school,” Harrington says. “I’m doing a gap year,” he adds, when Billy still doesn’t respond. “We can just leave.”

Billy wants to say that it’s presumptuous for Harrington to assume Billy’s just going to _run away with him_ in a few months, but if he’s being honest with himself, it’s not fucking presumptuous at all. “Where?” he asks.

“I don’t know yet,” Harrington says. “A few months, though. That’s it. Then we leave and you never fucking have to come back if you don’t want to.”

Billy will never want to come back, but he thinks of Max and guesses he’ll probably have a reason to. “Ok,” Billy says.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know what _it’s April_ meant,” Harrington murmurs. It’s dark all around them, except for the headlights. It feels peaceful, almost, not frightening. Billy brushes his fingers across Harrington’s stomach just to listen to his breathing catch. Harrington’s still touching him, still has Billy with his back pressed against the Camaro. There’s almost no space between them at all. Billy slides his hands around, presses his thumbs into the dimples in the small of Harrington’s back, easy dips to find against all that warm skin. It pushes their hips flush. “I mean,” Harrington continues, breath stuttering a little on the exhale, “What kind of person doesn’t realize how close to the end of the school year we are?”

“Fuck you,” Billy says, but he’s smiling.

“Is that an offer?” Harrington asks.

“Yes,” Billy murmurs, pressing a kiss against Harrington’s jaw. Harrington’s breath hitches again on a quiet moan as Billy slides his hand between them and palms him through his jeans. 

He nudges Harrington back to get space, to get both hands between them, to undo Harrington’s jeans and push them down enough that Billy can pull Harrington’s dick out and wrap a hand around him. He strokes once, slowly, and Harrington’s head falls forward onto Billy’s shoulder.

“Billy,” Harrington hisses, but it loses some of the bite as Billy shifts his grip and Harrington moans, pressing his face into Billy’s neck. “Jesus, Billy,” Harrington breathes. “We’re in a _park_ \--”

“Do you want me to stop?” Billy asks, lips against Harrington’s hair.

“No, definitely not,” Harrington answers. Billy tightens his fingers and Harrington shudders against him, a full body thing, presses a hot, open mouthed kiss against Billy’s throat as he pushes closer. “Fuck,” Harrington says, lifting his head to look at Billy. His eyes are dark and his cheeks are flushed, his lips parted. Billy turns his head to catch Harrington in a kiss.

“Fuck, Billy, hold on, Jesus,” Harrington says, and the sounds he’s making, the stutter in his breath are so fucking hot that Billy’s maybe going to come in his pants.

Or, definitely, because then Harrington’s undoing his jeans and sliding his hand under the waistband of them and wrapping his hand around Billy. Billy pushes into his hand, a little helpless, can’t stop the sound he makes, can’t believe this is happening.

Billy kisses Harrington, then, tries to turn it urgent, desperate, all teeth and tongue but even fucking into Billy’s hand around his dick, Harrington keeps the kiss deep, gentle, like he _means it_. Billy feels like he’s coming apart, is panting for it. This time, when Billy comes with Harrington’s name on his lips, he saying it into Harrington’s mouth.

After, when they’ve both cleaned themselves up with a few old t-shirts from Harrington’s trunk-- “Is that the fucking _bat_?” Billy asks, eyes wide, and Harrington looks kind of shifty--they’re sprawled out on the hood of the Camaro, backs against the windshield. Billy’s got his arm around Harrington like he had that time at his house, and Harrington’s kind of curled into Billy’s side, yawning. “When’s the last time you slept?” Billy asks, his lips against Harrington’s temple.

“It’s been a while,” Harrington admits. “Why? You want to take me home and tuck me in?” 

Billy does. Can’t. He closes his eyes and squeezes Harrington’s shoulders.

“You could, you know,” Harrington adds. “Take me home. Stay there.” He splays his fingers across the top of Billy’s chest, Billy can feel them, warm, pressing into his collarbone.

“I can’t do that,” Billy says, voice quiet. “Just move out like that. I can’t do that.”

Harrington shifts, tilts his head up, and kisses Billy in the way that is almost too much to bear. Gentle. Billy melts, a puddle, a wave cresting on the shore, but not breaking. “Ok,” Harrington says, “I get that.”

Even if he doesn’t, Billy appreciates the sentiment.

He could fall asleep out here, like this. The April air is too cold for it, but Harrington is warm at his side. He can’t, though. Another thing he can’t do. At least not yet. “I gotta go,” Billy says, finally. “Before my dad gets up.”

Harrington nods, sits up, stretches a little before he rolls off the hood of the Camaro. He’s not coordinated about it at all, half stumbles, and Billy can’t help but laugh at him, which makes Harrington smile back at him. 

“Night,” Billy says.

“Night,” Harrington answers, presses one last kiss to Billy’s lips. “I’ll see you at the arcade today, when we drop the kids off? We can come here after. Play a little ball, maybe.”

Billy kisses Harrington again, pulling him close enough to eliminate any space between them, and he thinks about the way a highway looks after a car crash, about salt on skin and the cold, stale light of hospitals.

This isn’t that, though. This doesn’t feel like the kind of falling Billy’s used to. 

“It’s a date,” Billy murmurs against Harrington’s lips, feels Harrington smile into the kiss.

~

Driving home, Billy thinks that nothing gets easy after this. It’s a hard thought and it drills in against the edges of his brain. Nothing gets easy after this.

Billy pictures what his dad would say if he knew about Harrington and he doesn’t really need to go over the details to know it would be bad. He parks outside the house, sneaks back in the front door, leaves his keys in the little ceramic dish Susan likes. He hovers awkwardly right after he puts them there, back pressed against the wood of the door, just in case his dad is up early.

He isn’t. Billy finds it in himself to exhale and goes back into his room. He’s mostly thought Max and her radio are kind of weird, the way she whispers into it before she falls asleep. When he slips back under his sheets, though, pulls the blankets over his body, he thinks that he might like one. Just so he can talk to Harrington whenever he fucking wants.

It’s still dark outside, but the sun will come up soon. Billy curls around himself in bed, makes himself small, and falls asleep.

~

Billy’s morning starts with a pounding on his door. He nearly falls out of bed he startles so bad. The pounding doesn’t stop, but no one barges in either. Billy scrubs at his face, hisses when he hits a bruise wrong, and tugs on a t-shirt. Then he opens the door.

Max is standing there, her arms crossed over her chest. “Finally!” she says, pushing past him and flopping to sit, criss-cross, on his bed.

Bill stares at her. Max stares back. “Oh my god,” she says. “It’s like, 9am. Your car was outside when I woke up. I need to know what happ--”

Billy’s across the room in an instant, a hand over her mouth, his eyes wide. Max rolls her eyes at him and licks his palm, but Billy keeps his hand where it is. Is she trying to get him fucking killed? Or caught? Again?

She shoves at his wrist. He hesitates, but lets go. “Jesus,” she says. “Come on, Billy. They aren’t home. I’m not stupid.”

“Sorry,” he says, standing there awkwardly. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. Does he sit down next to her? They’ve never really done the sibling thing to this extent.

“Here’s how this is gonna go,” Max says. She sounds so much like him. “You’re going to make me breakfast. Pancakes, I think, and then you’re going to tell me what happened because Steve isn’t answering _anyone_ on the radio and Dustin thinks you killed him, but I don’t think so.”

Max gets up then and walks out of the room. Billy stares after her. A second later her head pops back around the door. “Billy,” she says, “Pancakes. Now?”

Billy follows her. He isn’t sure what else he’s supposed to do. 

~

April turns into May and Hawkins explodes into this beautiful, bright green that doesn’t remind Billy of California at all, but it’s still pretty. It’s a Wednesday night and the Harrington parents are out of town, so Billy is sitting on their couch, staring down at his science homework. The kids are at the arcade until 8, when Billy and _Steve_ will be expected to pick them up. Billy’s trying on calling Harrington different names. Some of them work, some of them don’t.

There’s different levels to the names. In Billy’s head, now, it’s almost always Steve. Steve who looks at him and smiles across a classroom or across that old, abandoned park. Steve who reaches for his hand and squeezes, who anchors Billy when he can’t seem to anchor himself. Sometimes, when they’re fucking, and Billy’s looking up and feeling full in a thousand different ways, he says _babe_ and that usually comes with _please_ and it always makes Harrington blush.

In front of people, with the occasional and notable exception of Max, it’s always Harrington. Billy wields that name like armor, like it will protect him from being known. He thinks it bothers Harrington, a little, but he knows that he also understands.

“Hey,” Harrington says, and Billy feels him scoot up behind him. Billy leans back on instinct, against his chest, and settles between his legs. He tips his head back so that his temple rests against Harrington’s cheek.

He wraps his arms around Billy’s waist and Billy closes his eyes. “How much time do we have?” Billy asks.

“Like twenty minutes,” Harrington says. Billy rests his hands on top of Harrington’s, drums his fingers against skin.

“Wish it were longer,” Billy says. He feels tired, but in a good way. He knows Harrington feels tired in a _less_ good way, but hadn’t been successful in convincing him they they should just take a nap. 

Harrington hums thoughtfully. “Why don’t you and Max stay over?”

“It’s a school night,” Billy says, like Harrington is stupid, which maybe he is. “I can’t have a fucking sleepover.”

Sometimes, when _Steve_ pushes at the flimsy boundaries that Billy’s set up like armor, like how he says _Harrington_ , heat prickles all over Billy’s skin, little flashes of anger, of fear. Harrington tightens his grip around Billy’s waist when Billy starts to pull away. “Hear me out,” Harrington says. He presses a kiss to Billy’s temple, again, so fucking gentle, and Billy’s a sucker for it. He rolls the tension out of his shoulders, knocks Harrington in the chin a _little_ on purpose, and waits.

“Tell your dad that Max got an offer to sleep at Jane’s and wants to know if she can and that _if she can_ you want to go study at a girl’s house. Say Nancy, even, if you want.”

Jane is the code name for Hopper’s daughter. Or her real name? Billy is still not one hundred percent sure. He also shouldn’t say yes to this plan, because it’s stupid and it’s dangerous, but his dad likes Nancy--who he’s met a few times when she picks up Max. She’s smart and beautiful and acts very meek--though Billy knows now that she isn’t--and she comes from a Nice Family. And, maybe mostly importantly, Harrington doesn’t just look tired, he feels it. Billy closes his eyes and thinks, _splat_. He smiles and says, “Sure.”

So it’s a school night and there’s going to be sleepovers and Max is _ecstatic_. His dad agrees, a little reluctantly, but Billy hears Susan say something about having the house to themselves in the background. Billy can think of few fucking things worse than being alone in the house with his dad, but he can also think of few fucking things stupider than getting married to him. It works out, either way. When Billy hangs up the phone, Harrington reveals phase two of his plan. Max will actually be sleeping at Hopper’s with El, who is also, apparently, ecstatic.

It’s a lot of moving pieces, but Billy thinks they’re worth it once the two of them are finally back at Harrington’s house with no interruptions. Harrington is standing in the kitchen, peering into the refrigerator for snack options, and Billy’s leaning against the counter staring at him. It’s starting to get late and Billy isn’t actually hungry.

“Steve,” he says. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Hold on, I just want to find--”

“Steve,” Billy says again. “Stop stalling. Come the fuck on. We ate a ton.”

Harrington looks at him, then, and the light of the refrigerator makes him look washed out, highlights how tired he looks, how pale. “Listen,” Harrington starts. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

Billy wants to beat his head against the wall. “What are you talking about?”

“Maybe you should go--home,” Harrington says, looks like he regrets it the second it’s out of his mouth. “No, shit, sorry, that’s not--” he stops, shuts the refrigerator door. It doesn’t get any darker in the house. He has practically every light on.

Billy doesn’t understand what’s going on, feels hot prickles over his skin. He drums his fingers on the countertop. “I’m confused,” he says, “I should go home, or I shouldn’t?” _Harrington_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t say it. Billy is learning to attack less. Or he’s trying, anyway.

“It’s just--” Harrington stops and scrubs a hand through his hair. “We’ve slept together.”

“Yep.”

“No, we’ve slept together, but we haven’t-- _slept together_.” 

Harrington is making very little fucking sense.

“Naps!” Harrington half shouts it, waving his arms around, a little frantic. Billy jumps. “You’ve never stayed the night. We take _naps_.”

“Right,” Billy says, slowly. “That’s why you came up with this plan.”

“I had a plan,” Harrington says slowly. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck.” 

Billy walks across the kitchen, catches Harrington by the waist. “Look at me a second,” he says. “Come on. What the fuck is going on?” Billy stays close and reaches up, tries to pry Harrington’s hands away from his face.

It takes some tugging, but eventually Harrington drops his hands to his sides. “I have nightmares,” he says, miserably. “At night. I have really bad nightmares and you’ve never seen one and this was a bad idea.”

Billy nearly laughs, but he doesn’t, because Harrington looks sad and serious. “Is that why you never sleep?”

“I sleep,” Harrington says, defensive. Billy just looks at him. “Ok. I sleep _sometimes_. Yeah, they’re why I don’t sleep.”

_Is that why there’s still a bat in the back of your car?_ Billy doesn’t ask. “So let’s go to bed.”

“There’s a guest room--if you want--if you don’t--”

“Steve,” Billy says, catches Harrington’s jaw in his hand, “We’re going to bed now.”

Harrington walks up the stairs like a condemned man. He tugs off his shirt, his jeans, slides under the blankets and blinks up at Billy miserably. The whole thing is pretty fucking dramatic. Billy rolls his eyes at him and then strips out of his shirt and jeans and climbs into bed next to Harrington.

This part is always a little awkward.

Billy’s instinctive reaction is to roll to his side, to curl up into himself and become small, to take up no space at all in the bed. That’s how he always sleeps, at home, after sex with anyone else, when he passes out on someone else’s couch. You make yourself small when you’re vulnerable. You don’t draw attention.

Only with Harrington, Billy doesn’t really want to do that. He just doesn’t always know how to tell him. One of the best parts about Harrington, Billy’s learning, is that sometimes he just understands what Billy wants, even if Billy isn’t really sure how to say it. 

Billy rolls to his side and curls up, and Harrington’s hand lands on his ribcage, warm, familiar. It doesn’t make Billy jump. When Harrington touches him, he almost always expects it.

Harrington runs his fingers down Billy’s side, over his hip. His hand slides over Billy’s stomach, then back up his chest. It stills somewhere over Billy’s heart, Harrington’s hand splayed flat against his skin. Billy feels like his heart is beating in Harrington’s palm. After a moment, Harrington pushes.

It’s a slow unfurling, Billy’s shift from curled tight to something Harrington can curl up against. It’s the hand on his chest that coaxes Billy back onto his back. He holds his breath, like he might shatter the moment and Harrington lifts himself up enough to graze his lips over Billy’s throat, to bite and suck a little at his pulse point. Billy feels himself soften under Harrington’s attention.

When Harrington finally kisses him, Billy’s loose and sleepy. He slides a hand through Harrington’s hair. “You definitely need to sleep,” Billy says. The light in the bedroom is still on. He nudges Harrington back enough so that he can reach over to turn it off.

Harrington’s hand shoots out and catches around Billy’s wrist. Billy flinches. For a second they stare at each other, frozen, Billy’s arm outstretched, Harrington’s fingers tight around his wrist.

They’re both scared, Billy thinks, just of different things, of different things they don’t really understand. He swallows a little, speaks first. “Want me to leave it on?”

Harrington lets go of his wrist, “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s all right,” Billy says. “Seriously. Want me to leave it on?”

“No I--” Harrington swallows. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Billy waits a minute, gives Harrington time to change his mind before he shuts the light off, but Harrington doesn’t say anything, just hovers there kind of awkward, propped up on one elbow. Billy shrugs and turns the light off.

The room plunges into darkness. Harrington lies back down, tucks himself against Billy’s side. Billy throws an arm around him. They have fucked so many times, now, and they have taken so many goddamn naps, but Billy thinks that Harrington was right to be a little freaked out. They’ve never slept together, like this, with the promise of so many hours. It’s so fucking intimate. Billy feels prickles of white-hot nerves across his chest, takes a slow breath, pulls Harrington a little closer. “Night,” he says, for lack of anything else to say.

Harrington feels tense against him, a little rigid. Billy stays awake until that tension drains out of him, until his breathing evens out. Only when Harrington’s asleep, drooling a bit on Billy’s shoulder, does Billy close his eyes and fall asleep, too.

~

Billy wakes up because Harrington is making sounds.

He blinks one eye open, then the other, much faster, reaches for the light. Harrington is shaking, moving too much. He lands one very solid kick to Billy’s thigh and Billy flicks the light on. He goes absolutely still for a second. There are tear tracks on Harrington’s face.

_I have nightmares_ , Harrington had said. Billy had turned the light off anyway.

He isn’t sure if you’re supposed to touch. Billy wouldn’t want that, someone reaching out and grabbing him when he’s shaking like Harrington is, when he’s pleading for something, calling out words that Billy doesn’t really understand. Billy wouldn’t want that at _all_ , but he’s not Harrington, who touches on instinct, who wants to curl closer always, who holds Billy’s hand even when they’re watching movies with the kids and Dustin makes grossed out faces at them every thirty seconds. 

Billy reaches out, presses his fingers against Harrington’s shoulder. He’s hot to the touch. Billy imagines he can feel the blood rushing through Harrington’s veins. Billy lays his palm flat against Harrington’s skin and squeezes, jostles him a little. “Hey,” he says, keeps his voice quiet. “Hey, wake up. Steve. Steve, wake up.”

Harrington startles awake then, eyes wide. He sits up so fast he almost knocks Billy off the bed with the force of it. Harrington pulls his knees to his chest, presses his forehead against them. “Fuck,” he says. “Fucking _fuck_.” He’s still shaking.

Billy reaches out again, rests his hand between Harrington’s shoulder blades and Harrington hisses. Billy yanks his hand back, “Sor--”

“It’s just cold,” Harrington says. “Your hand. It’s cold.” A pause. “Can you fucking just touch me again, Jesus, Billy,” and then he hiccups on something that’s half a sob, and Billy gets both arms around him and pulls Harrington as close as he can get him.

“I’ve got you,” he says, because he doesn’t know what the fuck else he’s supposed to say.

“I told you,” Harrington says. “Guest room. Should’ve slept in the guest room.”

Billy shakes his head, tries to press closer. “And miss this?” he asks, because Billy doesn’t know how to tell Harrington that it’s hard for him to unfurl even when it’s with him, and he doesn’t know how to ask Harrington to stay a little longer on days they both need to go home, and he doesn’t know how to tell Harrington that he fucking loves him, but he does know how to put his arms around Harrington and latch on when Harrington needs it.

Eventually, Harrington stops shaking and untangles himself from Billy’s grip. Billy kisses him, then, uses the pads of his thumbs to brush tear tracks off Harrington’s cheeks and feels a little bit stupid because he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do.

“If it makes you feel better,” Billy says, once they’re lying back down and Harrington’s got a leg thrown over Billy, his nose pressing against Billy’s throat. “You slept really soundly right up until you kicked me. Let’s definitely do this again sometime.”

Harrington groans.

~

On a Thursday night in May, Billy is reminded that shit can feel good and still go sideways. He’s driving to Harrington’s house when he gets pulled over. It’s a sick fucking joke, he’s thinking when he sees the lights behind him. He’s almost there. He can fucking _see_ the house.

Billy thinks about putting his foot down on the gas and speeding away, about skidding to a stop and running up the hill, about locking the door behind him and laughing into Harrington’s shoulder while the police knock and knock and knock, but can’t get inside.

Billy doesn’t do any of that. He doesn’t actually remember how he got in the car.

He remembers the kitchen wall against his back. He remembers blinking blood out of his eye. He remembers getting punched in the face hard enough to send him reeling. He doesn’t remember getting up, or getting his keys, or getting in the car. He doesn’t remember getting away, or what he’d done to make his dad so fucking angry this time. Something small, probably. It doesn’t take much. In the last few months, and Billy’s really been trying to divorce his father’s perception of him from the way that he perceives himself. Harrington’s good about it helping him, but it’s Max who makes Billy feel like maybe there’s some good in him. Tonight he just feels like shit.

Billy’d barely made it this far. He’s driving one handed, his other arm curled around his ribs, kind of hunched over. The hand on the steering wheel is black and blue and swollen from being stepped on, but Billy doesn’t think it’s broken. He knows what broken fingers feel like.

He rolls his window down as the cop walks up. He gets a flashlight in his face for his trouble.

“Jesus,” Hopper says.

Billy, who is a mouthy little shit, but rarely with cops, but who tonight doesn’t have the goddamn energy to care, flashes a red-tinged grin, does his best to point at himself with his thumb and says, “Nah. Billy.”

“Original,” Hopper answers, rolling his eyes. “What the hell happened to your face?”

Billy turns his head and stares straight ahead, jaw tight. He’s not fucking answering that question.

Hopper adjusts his hat. “Do you know why I pulled you over, Billy?”

“It’s Jesus,” Billy says, quick and stupid. Hopper takes a quick step closer to the car, leans into the window, and Billy can’t help his flinch, the hot embarrassment that mingles with anger and curls like a fist around his spine.

“Easy,” Hopper says. “We’re just talking. You were weaving all over the road. Are you drunk?” Billy keeps staring straight ahead. Tries to drum his fingers on the steering wheel, which hurts. He sucks in a sharp breath at the pain. Hopper moves his flashlight from Billy’s face to his fucked up hand to the arm he’s got curled around his ribcage. “Right,” Hopper says in response to Billy’s silence.

Billy grits his teeth. “Am I under arrest?”

“No,” Hopper sighs. “But someone probably should be. You sure you don’t want to tell me what happened?”

Billy doesn’t answer.

“Are you going to Steve’s?”

Billy nods, once, tight, quick. He can feel his eyes watering and he isn’t really sure why. It’s just the thought of taking his aching hand and throwing his car into drive and then walking up to Harrington’s house seems suddenly so fucking overwhelming. Maybe Hopper will go away and Billy can put his head down on the steering wheel and just sleep for a while. If Hopper hadn’t fucking stopped him he would’ve made it, he thinks. He would be in Harrington’s bed.

Billy feels hot all over, and he’s hurt, and he’s angry, and he’s a little scared and he doesn’t know why, so his eyes water. Hopper moves the flashlight off his face when Billy peels his arm away from his ribs to rub at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah,” Billy says after a long pause, after trying to get his thoughts together. “I’m going to Harrington’s.”

His best bet, now, is that Hopper leaves. Then he can lie down for a little while.

“Jesus,” Hopper says again. Then he walks away.

Relief floods Billy. He sags back against the seat, curls his arm back around himself, and thinks of how good it’s going to feel to just close his eyes. It would feel better if he were in a bed, any bed--except his own with his dad looming outside--but preferably Harrington’s bed. Billy lets himself imagine soft sheets and warm skin pressed against his own.

“Yeah,” he hears Hopper saying. “You better get down here.”

Billy’s eyes shoot open. He doesn’t know how Hopper would do it, but maybe he radioed someone at the station--maybe he’s calling his dad--fuck, shit, _fuck_. Billy knows better than to mouth off to cops. Maybe Hopper’s getting fucking reinforcements. Maybe he thinks he’s doing Billy a favor, and some deputy is going to roll up with his dad so he can drive his fucked up, piece of shit son home.

Billy would press the heels of his hands into his eyes if it wouldn’t hurt more than it would help. He knows that his fingers are shaking.

Hopper doesn’t come back near him and so Billy sits there in silence, waiting for whatever’s coming and thinking that he should’ve known better than to get comfortable.

Hopper’s voice again: “You know what happened to him?” Billy keeps his eyes shut. He hadn’t heard a car pull up, but Hopper’s talking to someone, and it’s not like Billy was really listening for it. “You can take him home, yeah,” Hopper’s saying. Billy can hear the sigh in his voice. “Just--keep an eye on him.”

When Billy was nine years old, he’d run away from home. His dad had locked him in his room for nearly a week. Billy wonders if he’s big enough now that he could break out, if it came down to that.

Footsteps approach the car and Billy wipes at his eyes again, quickly, because boys don’t cry and he is, a little. He swallows hard and opens his eyes and--

“Jesus,” Harrington says.

“Billy,” Billy answers, but his voice cracks and ruins the joke.

“Hilarious,” Harrington says anyway. He pulls open the door of the Camaro and presses a hand to Billy’s cheek. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck.” Harrington leans in close and presses their foreheads together and Billy feels himself lose it a little, feels his eyes well as Harrington’s hand come up to cup his cheek as Billy’s breath stutters out of him. “It’s all right,” Harrington’s saying. “You’re all right. I got you.”

Billy presses his face into Harrington’s shoulder and it’s awkward because Harrington’s leaning into the car Billy’s still sitting in, but it’s warm and familiar and he smells like _home_ and he gets an arm around Billy’s shoulders and just holds him there for a bit, on the side of the road in Hawkins, Indiana with a police chief watching.

“Ok,” Harrington says, when Billy lifts his face up. “Can you walk?”

“Fuck you,” Billy says, shoves Harrington back a little bit. He stands just fine. He just leans on the car, a bit, and on Harrington, also, more than a bit.

“Maybe later,” Harrington says quietly, a smile at the edges of his mouth. Then, “I got him, Hop. I’ll get the car later. Thanks for--thanks for the radio.”

“Stay off police channels,” Hopper says with another heavy say and then he gets in his truck and drives away.

Billy sags against the Camaro. “No chance we could sleep in my car, right?”

“My bed is better,” Harrington promises him. He gives Billy a second, though, stands right in front of him, his body warm against the nighttime chill. Billy doesn’t think the car would be bad, if Harrington would stay with him. “C’mon,” Harrington whispers eventually. “It’s cold.”

The walk from the Camaro to Harrington’s bedroom is long and makes Billy feel like he’s a thousand years old. Once he’s stripped out of his clothes, though, and is curled up small in the bed with Harrington’s arm thrown over him and Harrington pressed up behind him, Billy has to agree. The bed is way fucking better.

~

Billy’s in love with him. He’s trying to figure out how to say it. It’s hard to imagine getting burned, even as he sits in the sun, white t-shirt sticking to his skin from the early June heat. Billy’s watching Harrington try to explain to Dustin why it’ll be cooler if he plays basketball in high school. 

Dustin, who is skeptical of Billy even nearly three months later, had almost fainted in shock twenty minutes ago when Billy had finally shown all of the kids the park.

“This is so _cool_ ,” Dustin had said, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Max had answered, at Billy’s side. “Totally tubular.”

Lucas had elbowed her in the side, then, and Billy felt like he was missing out on a joke, but Max had turned a bright, beaming smile on Billy for half a second before she’d followed after Dustin, who was saying something about the wildlife or maybe the wild flowers, Billy hadn’t been sure.

Now, Harrington throws his hands up in the air. “I give up!” he shouts, walking away from Dustin, who is holding the basketball a solid foot away from his body as thought it might bite him.

Billy thinks that’s pretty fucking rich, coming from a kid who had taken a trash-monster into his home without a second thought and gotten his mom’s cat eaten.

Billy has been looped in. He’s pretty sure Max had started lobbying for it, but that it was Eleven who’d made the final call. He looks for her curly hair as Harrington starts the walk back over to the car. She’s sitting with Max, their heads close together, while Lucas tosses blades of grass into their hair and tries to get them to include him in the conversation.

Eleven looks up when Billy’s eyes settle on her. She smiles at him and he feels known, but it isn’t as scary when Harrington finally gets there, sits on the hood next to him and drapes an arm around Billy’s shoulders. It’s intimate, even though it’s casual. It had taken some getting used to.

At first, Billy had been adamantly against this sort of public affection, but the kids are kind of Harrington’s family. Billy’s never really had one of those, but he’s pretty sure you don’t hide the biggest shit in your life from them. Especially after they tell you that monsters exist. 

Honestly, when this shit really started, Billy had just wanted to get his dick sucked. He’s still not sure how he ended up here, in the only place in Hawkins that feels like his own, with the only person in Hawkins who can really call him theirs.

Across the park, Max screams when Lucas drops a clump of dirt on her head. She gets up and kicks his shin and Lucas howls and Billy grins. All right, he thinks, grudgingly one of _two_ people to whom he might belong. Maybe.

Harrington presses his nose against Billy’s cheek. “New York,” he says.

“Ugh, colder than here,” Billy answers. Harrington’s been listing random states at him for weeks, trying to figure out where Billy wants to move. Graduation is coming. At some point, they’re going to get in a car and drive away. Billy has imagined driving away from Hawkins since he fucking got here. He’d never really imagined not doing it alone.

Harrington huffs a laugh and digs his chin into Billy’s shoulder. “California,” he says.

Billy goes rigid for a second, then shakes his head. “Been there,” he says. “Done that.” Harrington’s fingers press against the nape of his neck. Billy lets his shoulders drop.

“New Mexico,” Harrington tries, lifts his head to brush his lips over Billy’s ear. Billy shivers.

“Maybe.”

Harrington ducks his head and Billy can feel his smile pressing into the curve of his throat. “We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen,” Harrington says.

New Mexico. Billy rolls the idea around in his head, thinks about the way it would feel for the country to stretch out in front of them them, to put miles between himself and Hawkins.

“Steve,” he says suddenly, voice a little urgent.

Harrington sits up, keeps his arm around Billy and looks at him with such intent, honest interest that Billy feels warm all over. “Yeah?” he says.

Billy thinks of all the times they’ve slept together and _slept together_. He thinks of nightmares, of the places Harrington has seen him bruised. Billy thinks of the times he’s let Harrington see him fucking cry, of the way that Harrington has shouldered some of the weight Billy’s been carrying since he was fucking eight years old. He thinks of how willing he is to shoulder as much of the shit Harrington’s carrying as Harrington’ll let him.

“I love you,” Billy says, and he feels breathless and scared all at once, but Harrington just smiles at him and brushes their lips together. Billy feel that smile as they kiss.

“I love you too,” Harrington says. “I’m so fucking glad we finally decided on someplace. You are the pickiest person I’ve ever met,” and then he kisses Billy again, slow and sweet and like he means it, and Dustin, halfway across the park, screeches like he’s being stabbed in the stomach.

Billy flips him off.

Harrington kisses him and it feels like waves lapping at the shore, like being pulled in with the tide, like they will always come back to this--even if for a little while they have to leave it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come hang out with me on tumblr @lymricks and scream about these two, because I'm a mess and now I have 0 things I'm writing :(
> 
> <3 you're all magical and I've loved every single comment and reaction thanks for being amazing


End file.
